All the Little Children
by sbgrrl
Summary: Set during S3, but AU. Sam's visions didn't die with YED, and they take Sam and Dean both down paths they'd rather not walk. Now with added Bobby, some Sam angst and Dean whump. Story is complete.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This fic previously appeared in Brotherhood 6, so it may be familiar to some of you. It was written about a year ago, and so it's more AU than suitable to fit somewhere in the canonical timeline. It's also, yes, another Sam-leaning fic. I can't help it. My boy needs the attention. That said, it doesn't mean that Dean's not in the story or not **incredibly vital** to it. They're both my boys. _

_Feedback is welcome, as always, but I don't require it and I won't beg for it. _

**All the Little Children  
Chapter One**

There was no warning.

Sam Winchester glanced up from the newspaper he was scouring for signs of demonic activity to make sure Dean wasn't getting himself in trouble with the huge bikers at the pool table. When he looked back down everything became blinding light and indescribable agony. He ground the heel of his hands into his eye sockets, an automatic reaction to try to stem the pain through pressure. It didn't work. It never did. He was helpless in the grips of the hurt, and then the vision.

_The fourth floor of the parking garage was nearly vacant. There was a dark-colored van parked in the farthest corner from the elevator. It had been abandoned for so long the regular users of the garage barely even noticed its presence anymore. Darkness shadowed the corners, the bare orange glow from the sporadically placed lights doing little to combat the ever-encroaching night. One gray, unassuming Toyota Corolla Hybrid, parked on the outermost row of spaces, remained as evidence of someone's extra late night at the office. The Kansas license plate was customized "SULLY," marking the car with pride and assuring everyone knew who drove it. _

_The elevator opened with a ding, expelling a squarely built man in a business suit. He was in his early forties, with a high forehead and dark, thinning hair salted with silver. He hummed softly to himself. If anyone else were around, the tune would be unrecognizable to them, merely a series of hardly differentiated notes. The man clearly had no musical ability, but he didn't seem to care. He glanced at his watch and sped up a little after reading 10:30. He walked toward the Corolla, exhibiting no signs of unease. It probably never once occurred to him to think someone might be lurking in the darkness, the way a woman walking alone in the near dark might. He raised his right arm, and pointed the keyless fob from ten steps away. The car horn chirruped twice and the parking lights flashed. The man had a grip on the door handle when he paused. He looked toward the shadows, a puzzled expression on his face. He tilted his head, as if listening for something before shaking himself._

"_Huh," he said out loud, rubbed at his ears, and shook his head again. After a moment, he went back to humming his undistinguishable song. The man opened the car door, paused, turned and stared at the dark shadows, bewilderment changing to resignation on his face. He stopped humming and started to chant softly, putting to words the song in his head. "I believe I can fly, I believe I can touch the sky. I think about it every night and day, spread my wings and fly away."_

_With stilted steps, he moved toward the gaping black maw of a window, leaned over and looked down. He dropped his car keys on the cold concrete and took off his jacket and tie. The clothing puddled on the floor, on top of the keys. He removed his wedding ring, watch and his wallet from his pocket, discarding them, too. He stepped over his personal effects, and walked back to the rear of the Corolla._

"_I believe I can soar," he sang, louder now. "I see me running through that open door…I believe I can fly."_

_Still singing, he ran toward the large open window and leapt, as graceful as a professional diver. He did not stop singing until he landed, face first on the pavement below. In the otherwise still night, the sudden surge of wind sounded eerily like a child's laughter._

Sam came out of the vision like a drowning man surfacing the water, gasping and choking. His head throbbed with pain that was all bursts of static, alternating white and vermilion. He heard nothing but the blood rushing in his ears, felt nothing but the hard table beneath his elbows, smelled nothing but beer and smoke, tasted salt and metal. Everything rushed at him. It was sensory overload. He groaned and tried to fumble to his feet, but was held back. He felt like he was trapped in a long, dark tunnel and the walls were closing in.

"What the hell is wrong with him?"

"Get me a towel."

He was going to puke. Now.

"Forget the towel, where's the bathroom?"

"Huh?"

"Damnit."

Hands that had held him back before now pulled him up and bore most of his weight. Sam tried to open his eyes, but even the dark bar was too well lit for him. The invading brightness only made the bile at the back of his throat surge up faster. He closed his eyes again and retched. Dean swore in his ear. He somehow found himself on his knees, clutching at something cold and smooth. He heaved until he had nothing left in him. The worst of the headache dissipated after he emptied his stomach, leaving a lingering pulsation of pain that wasn't pleasant but was tolerable. Sam slumped and rested his head on the arm he had draped across the disgusting and grungy toilet, unable to rely on his muscles to hold him up.

"Hey," Dean said softly.

Sam heard a trickle of water and then there was something cool and damp at the nape of his neck, a gentle but firm squeeze. Dean wasn't touchy-feely except for when he was freaked out.

"You all right now?"

He couldn't muster a verbal reply, just kept his head down. Dean rubbed his shoulder awkwardly and let him off the hook for the time being. They knelt in the dirty stall for a few minutes. When Sam finally opened his eyes, he cringed at the up close and personal view he had of his own reddish-tinted vomit and eased back. Shit, was he puking blood now?

"No, your nose is bleeding."

Oh. Sam blinked. He must have said that out loud. Dean still sounded spooked, in a way only Sam would probably ever pick up on. The noise of the toilet flushing was sudden, resonant and nauseating. He winced again, rubbing a hand under his nose. It did come back red.

"Here."

A wad of coarse paper towels appeared in front of him. He squinted at them, mostly to block their whiteness out, because his head still hurt _just_ enough that he might hurl again. Sam shifted around to sit on his butt, back leaned against the stall door, one leg pulled up. He blotted at his nose and hand, hoping he was cleaning himself up adequately. The truth was he didn't care to do more than a cursory dab and wipe.

"Shit," he said thickly.

Dean didn't push him. Sam appreciated both that and his brother's steady presence. He'd forgotten what havoc visions wreaked on him physically, let alone mentally; it helped to have Dean there. He hadn't had a vision in over seven months, and he'd fooled himself into thinking since the yellow-eyed demon was dead it was all over. Even being out of practice with the visions, this one seemed stronger than anything he'd experienced before, and different. Sharper. He opened his eyes a crack and caught a bleary glimpse of Dean's worried face. He blinked and Dean was calm and collected again, just like that.

"You okay to move?" Dean said.

"Yeah." Not really. He swallowed, wincing at his sore throat. "Let's get out of here."

Sam let Dean help him to his feet, but then bucked away from assistance, not because he didn't want or need it but because they were in a dive bar surrounded by rough guys who might cause them more problems if they looked weak. If he looked weak, he amended. It was probably an unnecessary precaution given that he'd just about collapsed right in front of them already, but he didn't want to draw any more attention if he could avoid it. He headed for the door, conscious that his unsteady gait was giving his condition away despite his intentions. Dean seemed to understand, though, and kept his eye on Sam from the time he made for the table to grab their stuff until he rejoined him at the door.

"Vision?" Dean said once they got into the car.

Sam slouched against the window and nodded once. Dean cursed, started the engine and steered out of the parking lot.

"I thought we were done with that shit. I thought since old yellow-eyed Azazel was dead, and all the other…."

"Freaky kids like me are dead, too, that we were … _I _was … in the clear?" Sam said softly.

The pause was long enough for him to know that he'd correctly guessed what Dean had been thinking. He knew without looking that his brother was clenching his jaw angrily to keep emotions in check. They didn't really like to talk about it, the constant battles with the demons unleashed that night were reminders enough on their own, of things they'd rather forget but never could. Death was Dean's middle name now, and Darkness Sam's own.

"I guess not."

"What did you see? Any clues where we need to go?"

Sam straightened a little, keeping his eyes at half-mast. His head still hurt too much to face the glare of oncoming traffic straight on. His throat was sore and burning, aggravated by the unpleasant and unexpected vomit session. He cleared it gingerly. He could work through the physical discomfort. He had to, and he appreciated that Dean didn't even hesitate to follow the lead of what Sam saw.

"Kansas."

"You sure?"

"Saw a license plate," Sam said. It was the same way they'd tracked Max down, forever and ever ago. He didn't particularly like the connection, or the memory. "Some guy…launched himself out a parking ramp window from four levels up, for no reason."

"Suicide?"

"I don't think so, man. One minute he was humming along and the next…I dunno, Dean, he was so calm about it. He unlocked his car, but stopped and looked around like he heard something." There was something about it Sam couldn't quite name, but it made him uneasy. "If this is like all my other visions, then it appears someone like me is involved. It's possible there's another mind control thing going on."

"Like Andy Gallagher," Dean said. "Right. You don't happen to know how much time we've got to make sure this guy doesn't take a nosedive, do you?"

Sam glanced at his watch. He had to blink a few times to clear bleary vision. It was ten to midnight. His unease increased. He wasn't and hadn't been in the best state to gauge the passage of time, but he doubted the span from when the vision hit to when he and Dean left the bar had been more than fifteen minutes. That meant the vision had likely started at about 11:30, East Coast time. That made it 10:30 in Kansas. His vision had occurred at the same time exactly, and that had to mean something not very good.

"I think…."

"What, Sam?"

Dean's voice took that edge again, barely discernable fear. Before all this, before their lives had gotten even more screwed up, Sam wouldn't have noticed it, but now he read Dean better than Dean was probably aware. Sam reached up and brushed a finger across his upper lip, where the blood had slicked. He wasn't alone in knowing this was different, he knew. When was a nosebleed not just a nosebleed? He shivered.

"I'm pretty sure I watched it happen in real time," Sam said, shooting Dean an uncomfortable look. "It could be a coincidence, but the guy looked at his watch and the vision must have started at about the same time. But it felt different somehow."

"Well, that sucks. Poor guy," Dean said, sounding as uncomfortable as Sam felt.

Sam touched his upper lip again.

"Your nose has never bled before."

"I know."

Sam dropped his hand. The conversation dwindled and they rode in silence until they reached the motel, to pick up their stuff. Sam was okay with the silence. His head still throbbed, every little light and noise seemed magnified. It was taking longer than usual for him to pull himself together, and he hoped like hell it wasn't obvious. But it probably was, so he decided again that trying to hide it was a wasted effort. The neon motel sign flickered. Sam had to close his eyes momentarily, before he opened the door and kind of fell out of the car. He gently rubbed at his temples, aware that Dean was staring at him. He ignored it and headed for the door to their room, unlocked it and went in. The bed, lumpy and smelly and way too short, looked wonderful.

"Dude, just lie down. You look like death war…." Dean stopped, cleared his throat, and swallowed loud enough to be heard. "You look like you could use some sleep, Sam. Tell me the license plate number. I'll dig around while you rest."

"Dean, we should get going. I can sleep in the car," Sam said. His protest aside, he took a wobbling step toward the bed.

"I'll wake you if I find out nothing's happened to the guy yet. I promise. If it's too late, we can spare a few hours for you to get some rest."

Sam sat on the bed, hoping he said and didn't just think "Sully." He was asleep before he was fully horizontal.

*

Dean had let Sam sleep for a few hours, but rest didn't come for himself; the bad feeling he'd developed the second he saw Sam hunched over with blood streaming from his nose prevented him. Finding out the registered vehicle owner for the license plate, one Eric Peter Sullivan, age forty-two, husband and father of three, was already dead just the way Sam had described did little to help. Finding out Eric Peter Sullivan was a resident of Lawrence, Kansas just tipped him over the edge. Despite having promised to not be a stranger to Missouri Mosley, Dean had never intended on returning to that place ever again and now it looked like his intentions were a complete waste of time. They were on a beeline to Lawrence.

They didn't have much of a choice. All they seemed to do lately was chase demons, so it didn't make any difference if the personal ones were now Sam's instead of Dean's. In some small, sick way, it was almost a relief to have something for his brother to concentrate on besides the deal he'd made to bring Sam back to life, which he did not regret for himself. He felt like an asshole for thinking that, but he'd been on Sam's laptop long enough to see the search history had been overwhelmingly dedicated to his own…situation. He appreciated Sam's perseverance, he really did. It worried him all the same. Sam wasn't even willing to talk about the possibility there was nothing that could be done to save his soul. That was something he _did_ regret. Dean'd be dead in eight months thanks to his deal with a demon. The way Sam was going… Well, it concerned him to leave his brother in such a bad place.

He shook his head. Now was not the time to think about that, or to mention his unpopular opinion that Sam should stop trying to save him. Dean spared a glance away from the stretch of highway in front of him to look at Sam. He didn't like what he saw. Six hours of sleep had done nothing to lessen the dark circles under his eyes. Sam hid it well, but Dean knew the headache was still there, long hours after the vision. He didn't like driving straight toward trouble, specifically trouble related to demons that were long dead and shouldn't be screwing with his brother anymore. It didn't matter that they knew they were looking for a kid with abilities, though he had no clue how that was even possible. All of those kids had died, or so they'd thought. That wasn't set in stone anymore. There would come a point where Dean might have to stay behind for his own safety, or at least a point where Sam would try to make him stay behind. No way was he letting Sam bear the weight alone, not when his brother was already bearing the heavy weight of finding a way to foil a crossroads demon's deal. Dean knew how carrying too much felt.

"Won't Missouri know we're there anyway?" Dean said. "She is psychic."

"Maybe. I don't know, but if we don't have to, we don't call her, Dean," Sam said. "I don't want to put anyone else in danger."

Dean didn't really want to bring Missouri in on this either, but after months of fighting a war most people didn't even know was being waged, sometimes it was good to be in the company of friends. Besides, she might actually be of some help along with her usual routine of being a tremendous pain in his backside. He smiled softly. For all the crap she had given him the last time they were in Lawrence, he had figured out after the fact that she'd done it to keep him from freaking out about Sam's visions. Funny how all that still freaked him out but was almost normal. Except for the sudden resurgence and intensity of this latest one that, frankly, scared him. He gave Sam a sidelong look, catching his brother in a moment when the fear was palpable. He frowned.

"All right, all right," he consented. "We don't call her."

They weren't far from the city now, and they didn't have much of a plan. Dean's search online had yielded no other strange deaths or occurrences. He figured Sam would have seen them anyway, providing the same rules applied based on previous experience. Sam confirmed his lack of findings, being the obsessive-compulsive that he was. They didn't even have a way to determine who the "special" kid who'd murdered Sullivan was. Sam's was the only nursery fire in Lawrence twenty-four years ago, though that theory had been debunked when Sam had met Ava. The handful of people Ash had uncovered what seemed like forever ago were all dead.

Hell, according to reports, a lot of twenty-three and -four-year olds had up and disappeared within the last year. That wasn't tangible proof – people disappeared all the time for normal, non-supernatural reasons – but Dean really had to wonder how any of those special kids besides Sam could be alive. He cringed, relived the horror of Sam falling to his knees in the mud and rain for the billionth time, as fresh a memory as if it had just happened. The sense that they were going to Lawrence like a moth to the flame only to get burned made his stomach hurt worse. He pretended it didn't.

"So you'll take the blame if she finds out we're in town without calling her."

"Of course. Don't be scared, Dean. I won't let her hurt you."

"I'm not scared," Dean said a little too quickly.

Sam started laughing.

"Shut up. She was _mean_ to me, dude."

"She really was," Sam said a little too gleefully.

Dean cursed under his breath.

"Sticks and stones won't break your bones, but Missouri will always be a big meaniehead?"

"Shut up and navigate."

Lawrence wasn't that bad of a town, even though Dean was certain it was on a freaking hellmouth. It was a quiet city, flat and suburban. It was even academic. It still gave Dean the heebie-jeebies. He wanted this job over as soon as possible. He blamed it on the location, though that wasn't the real reason for his reluctance.

"Are we finding a place to stay first or going right to the parking garage?"

"Let's get the garage out of the way." Sam was the one insisting on going there. "We probably won't find anything."

"Okay. We should see a sign for the city center. Follow Massachusetts to Eighth and take a left. The entrance to the parking garage is between Massachusetts and Vermont."

Sam was good. He almost sounded nonchalant, but he couldn't be. The whole vision thing had always screwed with his head as much as it did with Dean's. More, in the literal sense. Sam hadn't once tried to talk about it or push Dean into revealing his feelings. That part of Sam he thought he'd never miss in a million years was absent more often than it was present lately. God help him, Dean did miss it, because its absence made it feel as though he were riding around with a stranger sometimes. Dean tried to think about other things. Unfortunately almost everything else in his life was equally messed up. He couldn't even throw himself into the hunt, knowing it revolved around Sam, even tangentially. He had to try.

They stared at the sparse, uninteresting scenery as Dean pulled off Highway 40 and followed the signs to Massachusetts, which would bring them directly downtown. The city was like so many others. On the outside it remained All-American and as idyllic as any mid-sized Midwest town could be. Its residents, or most of them, were unaware the world was falling apart around them. Dean hated the fight, but damn it if he didn't also hate that he'd be dead before it was over. So maybe he did have regrets now and then. But then Sam would be _Sam_ again and the downside of demonic deals didn't seem to matter so much.

"I see it," Dean said.

It was already dark, which hopefully meant many of the cars were out of the garage. Dean wasn't quite sure what they hoped to uncover there, tried not to think that maybe Sam wanted to see if there was some psychic vibe going on. As for himself, he kept his eyes open for any sketchy-looking twenty-somethings.

"He was parked in the middle of the exterior row, by the windows." Sam pointed. "There, I think."

Dean parked the car two spots down from where Sam thought Sullivan had jumped.

"I still think the guy was probably a random victim."

"Max Miller had specific targets."

"Max Miller came a long time before any of the other psycho kids. He never mentioned being coached by our favorite yellow-eyed son of a bitch."

"That doesn't mean he wasn't. We didn't ask him. Besides, Anson Weems was coached by Azazel and he had specific targets. Maybe Sullivan had a personal connection with whomever did this."

"Then we should talk to friends, family, and coworkers, not hang around in dark garages," Dean said, not really knowing why he was arguing now when he should have fought harder earlier. Sam huffed at him. "I know, I know. You have a feeling."

"Mock me all you want, Dean."

Sam got out of the car and moved around it until he stood in Sullivan's parking space. Dean didn't have anything else to do, so he got out as well. He didn't like the pinched, in-pain expression on Sam's face, but it didn't look like his about-to-have-a-nosebleeding-vision face. Still, Dean kept a close eye on his brother. If, for the sake of argument, there really was some psychic link, it could cause damage to Sam again. He casually strolled to the window and looked down.

"I have to say, plunging headfirst onto concrete is not the way I'd choose to go."

He knew the comment was unwise even before he heard Sam give a little squeaky gasp and follow it up with mutterings Dean was sure included _hellhounds_ and _mauled to death_ and, okay, it was true the deal he'd chosen so Sam would live and breathe again wasn't any better than jumping out a building. The silence was thick and painful. Dean suddenly couldn't look anywhere but at the sidewalk where Eric Sullivan had died not more than a day ago. The knowledge that Dean was on borrowed time was always going to be there for Sam, no matter what else was going on. That wasn't a surprise, really, just an unlucky circumstance.

"Sam, I…."

"Don't say it. It's not your fault," Sam said quietly.

The absolution only made Dean feel worse. He didn't mean to keep bringing up reminders about his impending fate. It seemed unavoidable. If he stubbed his toe and cursed "damn it to hell," Sam cringed. If he ordered Eggs Diablo for breakfast, Sam would turn greenish and lose his appetite. They were only on month four. Dean wasn't entirely sure _either_ of them would make it to twelve at the rate they were going.

"Yeah, actually, it pretty much is," he said under his breath. Louder, he spoke to Sam, "So are you picking up anything, Super Sleuth?"

"Ha ha, Dean. You are so very funny." Dean smirked. Deflection accomplished. "All I know at the moment is that this is definitely the place."

The streetlights below showed the sidewalk cracks were rust-colored, evidence of a poor cleanup job. Dean nodded his agreement with Sam's unnecessary statement. He'd seen pictures of Eric Sullivan. He tried to envision what Sam had seen happen to the guy, then didn't know why he even wanted to.

"Do you think the kid who did this was here at the time?" Dean said.

"I don't know. We saw that powers of influence, assuming there really was mind control going on, can span distances. They could have been anywhere."

Dean didn't know what Sam meant by assuming. He'd seemed sure before that mind control was involved. In the months following the yellow-eyed bastard Azazel's death, who was to say skills hadn't been honed even more in anyone left behind? Just because Sam hadn't experienced anything didn't mean a thing about anyone else who might have survived. Sam had never been under demonic influence. Dean rubbed his head. Andy had reached out and touched him from Cold Oak. According to Sam, poor Andy had still been himself when he died and he'd managed quite a lot without evil manipulation. Dean didn't want to think about what a kid who'd been toyed with by Azazel could do. He thought compelling someone to jump to his death was the tip of a very big, very awful iceberg.

"Can't hurt to check things out," he said.

Sam didn't answer. Dean finally turned to look at his brother, but Sam wasn't there. Dean's heart started racing. He looked up and down the garage. But by all appearances he was alone.

"Sam?" Dean called. This was too much like a crappy diner in the middle of nowhere, Sam gone right from under his nose. His heart started beating faster. "Sam?"

"Over here."

Jesus. Dean's shoulders slumped in relief. He wondered if he was ever going to get over that panicky feeling every time Sam was out of eyeshot. Amid the battles and exorcisms and everything, it still happened. Dean pushed it away the best he could, his skin prickling slightly, and looked to the left. Sam stepped out from behind a dark-colored conversion van.

"Does this look familiar to you?"

Dean headed over, steps slowing the closer he got. It did look familiar. More than familiar, actually. Speak of the devil, and he will come. In the dark corner of the parking garage sat Andy Gallagher's van, fierce barbarian queen painted on the side. He didn't think it was a coincidence.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Hope you enjoy the next installment!_

**All the Little Children  
Chapter Two**

They'd spent a whole day and the better part of an evening trying to determine if Sullivan might be connected to someone with psychic abilities. Eric Sullivan hadn't worked with any twenty-three or twenty-four-year-olds. He had no hidden, illegitimate children. No nieces or nephews, blood related or through marriage. Hell, even the barista at the café where he usually picked up his morning coffee was well into her thirties. If she had fit the bill, apparently the man had stood out as a really great tipper and all around nice guy; she had appeared genuinely sad over his death. Nothing about him spoke to anything other than randomness. There was no impetus for the killing. Of course, they were assuming a similar mindset and mentality to Andy's long lost evil twin, because they had nothing else to go on. Still, Sullivan had never wronged anyone in large or small fashion.

All of those dead ends brought them to the van.

Sam had a very strong feeling Sullivan's death had been a lure to get them (him) to Lawrence, the value of a human life diminished to that. He rubbed at his temples surreptitiously, barely listening the conversation Dean was having with the parking garage shift supervisor. He couldn't get rid of his headache any more than he could get any of this to make sense. Andy had died months ago. There was no way a van with such distinctive artwork would go unnoticed for that long. A quick search of the vehicle revealed nothing inside had changed, barring a few new books and a missing bong. He refocused his attention to the here and now.

"Like we explained on the phone earlier, this is just a routine check, ma'am," Dean was saying to the tall, defensive-looking woman. "We want to make sure protocol is followed, that things are running smoothly here."

"I assure you," Sally, according to her nametag, said, "We do it all by the books. Our security system does all the work, so even the monkeys I work with can handle things. It records and backs up everything online."

"How long do you keep the feeds?" Sam said seriously. She looked frazzled, making him almost feel bad for putting her to the false test.

"Uh. We're supposed to clean them up once a week or so, unless there's an incident, you know, like we had the other, uh, night. But…."

"But you don't."

"As easy as it is, it's a pain in the ass to get anyone to cooperate with that particular rule. It's not like we don't have tons of space in the memory," Sally said, clearly embarrassed that she had to admit any breach in policy immediately after stating they followed rules.

Sam smiled at her, trying to show that he and Dean understood and weren't holding anything against her.

"It probably only happens once a month."

"That's all right, don't worry about it. You're right about having ample space," Sam said easily. "Do you mind if I take a look? I'd like to test and make sure all the cameras are functioning properly."

"Be my guest. They are, but if you want to see for yourself, that's cool. Let me get you into the system."

"Thanks."

"No problem. Oh, here's a car." She pointed. "You guys all right alone for a second?"

"We're fine, Sally," Dean said with a charming smile. "It's good to see you're so diligent."

Sally smiled back at him, blushing slightly.

Sam rolled his eyes and waited until she'd turned away to start working. He searched quickly, knowing what he was looking for and how to find it. He counted on the parking attendants to be less computer savvy than he was. Even if they'd dumped the feeds like they were supposed to, it was possible they hadn't completely wiped the cache. Bingo. He and Dean finally had a stroke of luck – the format was one he could use without much effort. He singled out the footage from the fourth floor cameras and traced it back nearly three whole months. That was all he could get. He hoped it would be enough. With a few quick keystrokes, he emailed to himself what he needed and backed out of the system.

"Everything good?" Sally said, returning her attention to Dean and, as an afterthought, Sam.

Dean looked over to him, and he nodded in return.

"Perfect. We really appreciate how cooperative you've been, Sally," Dean said.

Sally blushed again and Sam rolled his eyes again.

"Just one more question, though. How long do you let vehicles stay parked in the garage?"

"Well, most people are in and out same day, but there's a two-day maximum for any spot not leased. That _is_ a rule we do enforce."

"Huh," he and Dean said simultaneously. Sam cleared his throat, and continued, "What about the van on the fourth level? I noticed it on the recordings for more than a few nights."

"What van?" Sally blinked at them.

Sam exchanged a raised-eyebrow with Dean, then looked back to Sally. The woman seemed genuinely confused and clueless about what they referred to. Sam gave her another smile, though for some reason his head started hurting more.

Sally started to smile back slowly. "Oh, I get it. You're trying to fool with me. Good one. Van on the fourth level, hah."

"We can't sneak anything past you," Dean said.

"Keep up the good work," Sam added.

Sally nodded at them absently, distracted by another exiting car.

Sam's mind raced. She really had no idea about the van. He wondered if it were possible for someone to make people not see what was right in front of them. It could be as simple as casting a glamour, but Sam didn't think they were looking at ordinary witchcraft. He and Dean could see the van. By the time they got to the car, Sam was fairly well worked up. He knew Dean would call him on it if he wasn't careful.

"Okay, she really had no idea what we were talking about," Dean said, "Did she?"

"No. The van must be masked somehow."

"Then why can we see it?"

Déjà vu.

"I don't know, Dean, but it has to mean something." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "I just have no idea what."

"Man, this thing is getting weird."

"Because our lives are otherwise so normal," Sam said dryly.

Dean snorted once, and then they fell quiet. There wasn't a whole lot to say until they could take a look at the footage. When they got back to the room they'd booked after finding the van last night, Sam headed straight for the laptop. He hoped the tape would give them something to work with, like maybe a shot of whoever had driven the van into the garage. Actually, he first hoped that the van would show up on the video at all. It seemed impossible that no one had seen it and reported it, not just the employees but also the people who frequently used the garage. Dean stood behind him as he pulled up the feed, starting with the oldest date.

"It's not there."

"No kidding. Fast forwarding," Sam said.

He chewed on the inside of his lip and watched the screen closely. He paused a couple of times, mistaking another vehicle for the one they were looking for. Minute after minute after minute went by and he started to worry that the van would never show up or that for some reason they wouldn't be able to see it.

"Stop. Stop. There it is," Dean said, jabbed a finger at the screen.

Sam let the video resume normal speed. They watched as the van was driven slowly into the parking space, backing in and out several times before the driver apparently found his job satisfactory. A kid – who looked remarkably like the owner of the vehicle, Sam noted with a cringe – strolled around to the back door. For a minute all that could be seen were legs, one of them lifting off the ground every once in a while. Finally, the guy emerged with Andy's giant bong. Then he shut the door and walked away. That explained the mystery of the missing bong. Sam tried for a clear shot of the guy. Luckily, the cameras were digital, making the images pretty crisp. He hit pause when the man's face was mostly visible.

"Now that is just plain freaky." Dean sounded a bit shaken, something Sam hadn't heard in his brother's voice in a long time. Well, aside from back in that bar's disgusting bathroom. "Tell me I'm not the only one who thinks that looks just like Andy. What's the date on this?"

"It's after Andy was already dead." Sam mentally flashed back to Cold Oak, Andy on the floor, a mess of blood and gore. Poor Andy. "There's no way it's him."

"I knew it, but it's just … damn. Someone is messing with our heads, right? The question is why."

He had no answer for that, or not one he wanted to say out loud. This was about him. It had to be. The more details they uncovered, the unhappier Sam was to have Dean so close to danger. This kid couldn't hurt him unless he let his guard down, which he'd never do again after Jake, but Dean was an easy target. Sam frowned. There was no way he'd talk Dean into taking a backseat now. His brother had never been one to give up a fight, not when it came to the day-to-day anyway. Sam wasn't sure Dean still didn't harbor a fatalistic view of his own life; for a time after his deal with the demon had been revealed, Dean had all but embraced the idea of dying. When Dean had finally stopped being so painfully overt about it, Sam was grateful on one hand, but on the other he maintained his worry. A Dean ready to give up on life in any degree wasn't a Dean he knew.

"I mean, it's too dramatic," Dean said. "As weird as it is, it's also stupid. We know what we're up against and the vision was enough to get us here. The van alone is over the top, but the clone is just ridiculous."

Sam had to agree. It did smack of _ha-ha, look what I can do_, which fit into Azazel's own attitude and might have been handed down to his trainees.

"But still, that guy has to know something. He parked the van," he mused with a nod, and squinted at the Andy doppelganger on the screen. "It looks like he's wearing a uniform. Let me see if I can zoom in a little."

"Dude, he works at the parking garage. Can you catch his nametag?"

"It looks like … something something CK."

"Fuck."

"Funny. Jack, maybe? Dack? Mack?"

"I'll call Sally."

Sam bobbed his head again, leaned back in the chair and stretched. He'd been hunched over more than he thought, his muscles tense and his eyes slightly dry. He heard Dean flirting on the phone with Sally and headed for the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, hoping it would help him focus. His mind was still filled with images of Sullivan's death, of thoughts he didn't like about things he thought he'd never have to face again.

He'd tried reasoning with Jake and all it had gotten him was a knife in the back. He didn't feel remorse about killing Jake, knew he could kill again, knew he'd have to, and it was the certainty of those things that freaked him out the most. They hadn't ruled out other possibilities, but if whatever was behind all of this truly was someone like him, that meant it was just a person. Sam didn't think he'd ever hesitate because of that again. He eyed his reflection in the mirror. He didn't look any different. Mostly, he didn't feel different. But, mostly, he was.

"Hey, Princess, going to hang out in there all night?" Dean called through the door. "Sally said the guy's name is Buck Zeise, works the swing shift tomorrow. Unusual name, should be easy to track down. We'll catch up with him in the morning. I'm sure we can find a bar around here somewhere, knock back a few tonight; relax a little. What do you say?"

"Sure," Sam said.

He ran a wet hand through his hair and reached for a towel. Something warm dripped on his upper lip. Sam looked back into the mirror, caught sight of a trail of thick blood trickling from his nose. He cursed and reached for the toilet tissue, blood spattering as he moved. He pinched the bridge of his nose. The bleeding stopped after a few seconds, but for some reason Sam was shaky.

"Sometime tonight, man?" Dean said.

Sam rinsed the sink, cleaned up his face and tucked the bloodied tissue into his pocket. One quick check in the mirror and he opened the door, faking normal expertly.

*

The neighborhood wasn't bad, filled with older homes and dated apartment buildings. Dean pointed at the duplex. They jogged up the steps and knocked on the door on the left. From out on the porch, they heard muffled curses and a few thuds. When the door finally opened a crack, it revealed a bleary-eyed man who squinted when the daylight hit his eyes. At about five-six, two hundred pounds, with thin blond hair, Buck Zeise looked nothing like Andy Gallagher.

Dean had half expected the image they'd seen had been manipulated somehow, but it was still strange. He was mostly relieved; he didn't think either he or Sam would have been able to handle even a passing resemblance. Dean had genuinely liked Andy. Some very small part of him was actually disappointed there wasn't a resemblance, even if he wouldn't have been able to take it.

"Buck Zeise?"

"Like, that depends. Who are you and what do you want?" Buck drawled at them. He gave a dopey grin.

If there had ever been any question about why Buck took the giant bong from Andy's van, it had just been answered. He sounded a lot like Shaggy from Scooby Doo and had a stoner's sloppy glow radiating off him. Regrettably, so did an unpleasant mixture of marijuana and body odor. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam take a slight step backward. Dean thought this conversation was probably going to be a whole barrel of laughs, and hoped like hell Buck was a functional pothead.

"I'm Detective Rather and this is Detective Cronkite. You can call me Detective, and you can call him Walter," Dean said, aiming a thumb at his brother. He could sense Sam's urge to smack him. He bit back a grin. "Do you have a few minutes, Buck? We're interviewing all employees at the Eighth and Vermont parking garage about the incident the other night."

"Oh, man, again?"

"We need to be thorough," Sam said.

"Yeah, okay, man. You're just not the guys who I talked to before. I was working that night. Poor dude," Buck said with a grimace. He didn't ask for ID, just stepped to the side and waved them in. "C'mon in."

Sometimes it was absurdly easy to get into homes. He and Sam flashed their fake badges anyway.

It came as no surprise that the duplex was a mess. Buck had to knock two pizza boxes and some junk mail off of the sofa before Dean and Sam could sit. Sam teetered uncomfortably on the edge. For a guy who spent life on the road in dingy motel rooms and dirty clothes, Sam was really prissy. Dean took the chance to give Buck a closer look. They'd thought maybe, just maybe, Buck would end up being the special kid they were looking for. Like things ever came that easily for them. No, Buck looked to be in his late thirties, and quite possibly too influenced by pot to let some evil yellow-eyed son of a bitch harsh his mellow. Just like Andy, Dean thought, unhappily making a connection between the two.

"I don't know what else I can tell you. I was on a smoke break when all of a sudden this guy busted up on the sidewalk. I mean, _splat_."

Buck didn't look troubled at all by that memory, but Sam's face took on the classic pinched expression telling Dean he was reliving the events of his vision once more. He knew deep down it was jacked up for him to find some amount of relief at Sam's pain, and that it wasn't a small amount. He wanted to feel bad about it, but he just couldn't. Any sign Sam gave now that he was still his Sam was something Dean really needed.

"The guy must have been nuts."

"Suicidal people generally have some problems with mental health," Sam said softly. "That doesn't make them nuts."

"No, man. That's just it, he didn't sound particularly depressed," Buck refuted. "I'm telling you, the guy was singing freaking R. Kelly at the top of his lungs until he went, y'know…."

"Splat," Dean said.

"It was like he was happy to plant his face on concrete. And who the hell goes around singing R. Kelly? Freaking nuts."

Sam had neglected to include the singing tidbit. Dean glanced over to his brother, who avoided looking at him. He frowned, though it probably didn't matter that much. He couldn't help but wonder if there was anything else Sam might have omitted. Though even if there were, it wasn't like Dean could call him on it. Somewhere along the way, they'd _both_ started telling lies. Hell, apparently no one in the world told lies with as much skill as their father. They'd learned from the best without even knowing they were studying.

"You said you were on a smoke break." Sam paused for an affirmative nod. "Was that regular tobacco or…?"

Buck blinked a couple of times, his eyelids out of sync with each other. He looked like a giant, grubby guppy. That might have been funny to Dean once, but it was just somewhat gross and disconcerting now. Sam's prissy ways had rubbed off on him a little.

"What, like, are you implying, dude … er, Walter?"

"Cut the crap, Buck," Dean said. "We could smell the marijuana from half a block away. We're not all that interested in what you do on your own time and we're not here to bust you."

"Oookay," Buck said. "I don't smoke at work. I could get fired. No job, no money. No money, no recreational activities."

That made sense. It was downright logical, in fact. Dean thought of Andy again, the boy genius who apparently found it preferable to live a stoned life than to maximize his brainpower. He'd bet Andy would approve of Buck owning and getting lots of use out of his bong. He smiled to himself.

"Tell us, Buck, have you been to Oklahoma lately?"

"No." Buck looked puzzled, and Dean couldn't blame him. Sam hadn't segued at all with that one. "I thought you guys were here to ask me about the suicide guy."

"We're following up on a lead," Dean said, hoping like hell that would be a good enough explanation for the strange shift in questions. "Several months ago, you drove a van with Oklahoma plates into the garage and parked it. It's still there, or it was until we impounded it."

Sam looked at him. He shrugged. So neither they nor the police had impounded the van. They couldn't have Buck going to the garage to see for himself, and run into an invisible hunk of metal.

"That can't be right. I've never even been to Oklahoma."

"Okay, fair enough, but someone else could have driven it to Kansas, yeah? But you're on the surveillance camera feed from the garage," Sam said. "We saw you park the vehicle, take something – and I think you know what – from it and walk away."

Buck stared at Sam open mouthed. His placid demeanor was almost gone, except now he was just plain stupefied. Dean was sure they wouldn't get anything helpful out of the guy; like Sally had been about the van, he appeared baffled by it all. When Andy had messed with his head, Dean had known it was happening and sure as hell remembered it after the fact. Whoever the punk they were after this time was, he was a big threat. It made Dean nervous. Very, very nervous.

"You're being serious," Buck said. He frowned, still looking at Sam oddly. "You have to believe me…. I don't know how that's possible, man."

"You have no memory of how you came into possession of the world's biggest bong, do you?" Dean said.

Buck finally pulled his gaze from Sam and looked at Dean, but only for a second. His attention returning to Sam for some reason, with fleeting, anxious glances now and again.

"You took it from the van. Think, Buck. Think about it. Maybe you'll remember something."

Buck nodded, scrunching his brows together in concentration. Dean barely refrained from telling the guy not to hurt himself. Sam leaned forward a little and then Buck made a very strange sound, almost a groan, which made Dean think maybe he really _had_ hurt himself thinking. He frowned. Buck scrambled to his feet, arms waving a little.

"Dude, uh," he said. "Detective, something's wrong with Walter."

Dean shot a look over to Sam. His brother's face was partially obscured by his hair, but what was visible was alabaster, so pale his veins shone bluely through the skin. The utter lack of color made the blood streaming from his nose all the more vivid. Dean lunged toward Sam, who groaned again, swayed and then just went scarily limp. He was on the floor, face first into filthy carpet, before Dean had even moved an inch.

"I'll call for help."

"No, don't," Dean had the wherewithal to bark. His knees hit the floor, and he wrestled at Sam's shoulders. "Just give us a minute here."

"What should I do?"

"I don't know. Get water or something."

Buck stumbled away. Dean managed to flip Sam first onto his side and then onto his back; his limbs were heavy and lifeless. He shook Sam slightly, reached for his face and gave a little slap to his cheeks. Nothing. Sam was completely, scarily unresponsive. He looked _dead_. Dean's heart beat staccato with panic. He shook Sam again, horrified at the way his brother's head wobbled, leaving a messy blood trail along his pale skin and into his hair.

"Sam," he said more with more firmness than he felt. "_Sam_."

Sam remained completely limp and out of it. Dean hated to do it, knowing firsthand how uncomfortable it was, but he rubbed his knuckles along Sam's sternum. That, finally, got a response – a deep, throaty moan and slight head turn. It wasn't nearly enough, considering the discomfort the action should have produced. Still, a small reaction was better than continued stillness. Dean swiped at the blood on Sam's cheek. All it did was make the red smear worse.

"I have water."

Dean looked up at Buck, who fidgeted at the door separating the kitchen from the living area. The guy looked almost as pasty as Sam, which only accentuated his greasiness.

Buck held up the water glass, and then also raised his other hand. "And paper towels."

"Well, bring them over," Dean said. When Buck didn't budge, he gestured. "Now would be good."

"What's going on with him?"

"Don't worry, he's not contagious."

Buck stayed in the doorway. Irritated, Dean gestured again, this time rudely, and returned his full attention to his brother. Beyond the initial moan, Sam hadn't shown any other signs of waking. It had probably only been about two minutes since he collapsed, about a minute and a half too long without substantial improvement. He could see Sam was breathing, but checked his pulse anyway. He found it unsurprisingly rapid, and that Sam's skin was clammy. Buck's feet appeared in his line of sight.

"Are you sure we shouldn't call an ambulance?"

Honestly, Dean wasn't sure at all, but he didn't answer. He just wanted Sam to wake the hell up already and to get out of there. He took the glass of water and paper towels. He tore off a sheet, dunking it into the glass. He used the damp sheet to dab at the blood. Hoping the water would arouse Sam as well as clean him up, he let a few drips hit his brother's forehead. No movement.

"Come on, Sam," he said under his breath.

To say he was freaked out was the understatement of the century. Dean slapped Sam's cheeks gently, splashing more water on his forehead. Sam reacted with a feeble turn of his head and this time didn't resume his stillness. His eyelids fluttered a few times, and his fingers started twitching. It wasn't much, but at that point it was a whole hell of a lot to Dean.

"I thought you said his name was Walter," Buck said slowly.

"I told you to _call_ him Walter, not that his name was Walter," Dean said, sparing Buck a glance.

"Oh. Right." Buck still looked vaguely confused and horrified. "Is he going to be okay?"

"Yeah, this happens from time to time. It's no big deal."

That was a particularly bad lie. Buck didn't say anything else, but shot a look at Sam and cringed. When Dean looked back down, Sam's eyes were open a crack and, from what he could see, glassy and vacant. His heart feeling like it was lodged in his throat, Dean leaned close to his brother. Sam's eyes didn't track him at all.

"Sam? Hey." For long moments, there was nothing and then Sam blinked. On the inside, Dean melted with relief. On the outside, he grasped Sam's shoulder and hoped his brother understood just how scared he was. "You back with me?"

Sam said something that sounded like _mmmph_ and could mean any number of things, but which Dean read as _no, not really_. As much as he wanted to give Sam time to recover from the worst vision experience ever, Dean was aware of Buck hovering in the room. They couldn't really delve into whatever Sam had seen that made him fall like eroding sand while he was lying, face still covered in drying, sticky blood, on some stoner's dirty living room floor. He wished they had gotten something out of their discussion with Buck. It would have been a small victory, but at least he'd have more to show for it than a broken brother.

"Buck, do you mind?" He gestured for the guy to get Sam's other side. "I don't think he'll be able to stand, but I want to get him to the car and then we'll be out of your hair."

Buck nodded and twitched a few times. Dean figured the second they were out of his house, the guy would hit the bong again. He kind of envied the escape. Alcohol and women were his drugs of choice, and lately even they were more temporary stopgaps than usual. Half the time he wasn't even sure if he was trying to live his short life to its fullest, avoid thinking about dying or to escape Sam's worrying by boozing and whoring. It was probably a mix of all three, with a bit of desperate hope Sam would give up his quest to save him tossed in. He shook himself out of his miserable reverie. Buck crouched next to Sam, looking ready to pass out himself when he looked at the small smear of blood on the carpet.

"Really, he's okay. Low blood sugar, that's all," Dean said. He needed the guy's help, and wasn't going to get it unless Buck shaped up. "On three. One, two, _three_."

It wasn't easy to control a six foot four, limp and damned heavy body. Their attempts were hindered by Buck's short stature and general lack of fitness as much as they were by getting no help from Sam. Sam did, however, mutter some more once he was upright (if it could be called that), which was a good sign overall but the content Dean could make out was troublesome. Judging from Buck's faltering when Sam let out a distinguishable word or simple plaintive cries for something to stop, he heard them, too. Fortunately, they were a little too busy for Buck to demand clarification. Chances were Buck wanted them gone more than he wanted to know what was really going on.

Five minutes of pushing, prodding and tripping later, they finally got Sam to the car. It felt like longer. Dean could see Buck shaking from the exertion. Shoving a floppy person in the back was slightly easier than trying to fold him into the front seat, so that was what Dean opted for even though it meant he might lose visual on his brother during the drive to the motel. It had never been like this. Sam used to just go into a vision and come out fighting.

Sam's head thumped on the edge of the car door, eliciting a soft moan but nothing more. His brother did seem to have more motor control, helping to slide himself onto the seat. It had been nearly fifteen minutes since his collapse, so the effort was way too small of an achievement. Dean made sure Sam's legs were tucked inside before he shut the door. He had to keep pretenses with Buck, but all he wanted to do was drive.

"Thanks for your help," he said. Dean pulled out a fake business card. "I'm going to give you my direct line. If you remember…."

"Actually," Buck said, taking the card. "I do. Kind of. It's not much, but I think I remember some kid."

Dean bent slightly and looked at Sam's crumpled form, heartened to see him move. He didn't know if he wanted to stick around for Buck's story, but he couldn't take the chance the guy had something important to tell him. Sam shifting around slightly gave him a small amount of peace.

"You _think_?"

"Yeah, man. It's the weirdest thing. I don't remember that van you guys were talking about, but the bong … some kid pulled up to the booth in the van and said I could have what was in the back if I did what he wanted."

"Did this kid have a name? What did he look like?"

"Young. Too young to drive legally, I think. Maybe, like, twelve or something." Buck looked relieved to have something to focus on other than Sam. "When I try to remember anything else, it's like … it feels like someone's scooped out my brain with a giant scoopy thing and then stuffed it back in."

Dean knew that feeling. He frowned. The new information wasn't exactly groundbreaking, but it was something. Or nothing at all, really. Some days _Sam_ looked like a twelve-year-old, and that was to people who weren't stoned. Like Buck probably was all the time.

"That all?"

"Yeah," Buck said. He looked deflated, unhappy he couldn't recall anything else. Buck looked into the backseat, at Sam. "Tell Walter or Sam or whatever his name is that I hope he feels better."

"I will. Thanks, Buck, you've been a big help."

Dean clapped Buck on the shoulder and moved around to the driver's side. Buck stood on the sidewalk and watched as Dean started the car and drove away. Dean glanced in the rearview mirror, tilting it so it was pointed more at the backseat than the street. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know what his brother had seen, but he was positive he would rather drive them the hell out of Lawrence than stick around to find out. Sam shifted, and shakily sat up, with his eyes still mostly closed. Dean clenched his jaw. Yeah, how he wished he could leave the whole frigging state of Kansas in the dust.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I'm starting to think I should have waited until January to publish this. Hmmm._

**All the Little Children  
Chapter Three**

Dean paced a tight line in front of him. The motion made Sam sick to his stomach, the same feeling he used to get as a kid as he gazed up at the stars through the rear window while his dad drove corners at breakneck speeds. He didn't think he could say anything to Dean about being ill without inciting more anger, so he just averted his eyes to the oily stain on the motel room ceiling and willed his stomach into submission. He remained fuzzy on how he'd gotten from Buck's house to the motel. He remembered only snatches – wordless voices, strong hands, and pain so intense it actually made him feel numb. That numbness should have brought relief, but it didn't.

There was no respite in a void, just cold and nothingness.

"You cannot seriously be entertaining the idea that I'm going to sit this one out," Dean said. "After all the shit you gave me about going off half-cocked and reckless a couple of months ago, there's just no way you can be serious."

"This is different, Dean," Sam said. "And it's different than our usual gigs."

What he'd seen and felt made it very, very different. There was no real defense against this monster. It was not another day on the job for them. Dean strode harder in his pacing circle at Sam's words. Sam didn't know how it was possible, but he swore he could hear the rustling of the short carpet strands with each step his brother took. The swish-swish thundered in his aching head. He closed his eyes, raised a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to stem the pain. He'd been so wrong assessing the Sullivan vision as the worst ever. His head still felt full with odd sensations, an underwater feeling. His brain might as well be sloshing in his skull and trickling out of his ears. The feeling, he supposed, was what the poor woman in his vision had actually endured.

"It's not different."

Sam opened his eyes and found Dean had finally stopped moving, standing stock still now and staring at him. He wondered why the swish-swish didn't stop.

"It's _not_, Sam."

"Dean, she was all alone. There wasn't anyone in the building doing anything to her. Someone did that from somewhere else. You can't be anywhere near this."

"Well, apparently distance doesn't matter much," Dean said loudly.

Anger or fear, it didn't matter the cause, the shouting made Sam want to crawl under a rock. He closed his eyes for a moment, sighing a little.

"Me sitting here with my thumb up my ass while you go out there alone isn't going to matter. If he wants me, then he can get at me no matter where I am."

Sam winced. Dean was right about that, of course, but Sam was right in the overall scheme of things. His head ached, and so did his heart. Dean should understand exactly what he was saying. Sam wasn't ready to let him go yet, wouldn't ever be ready for that, but he couldn't be any more of a cause for it than he already was. He could not, _could not_, watch it happen months before it should, before Sam had any semblance of a grip on Dean dying. So far Dean was safe, but that could change at any minute. Sam _knew_ it could. He closed his eyes.

_The strawberry blonde gasped and whimpered in obvious distress, blood trickling from her left ear. Her hazel green eyes were wide, filled with pain and fear. The color of her irises was remarkably like Dean's. On some level, Sam knew he was just observing, but it seemed as though she was looking right at him. She sat on a metal folding chair, unrestrained by any physical means, in the middle of an old warehouse. It was dark, the only light coming from windows high along the walls. The light was dim, dusky reddish-brown, and did not illuminate much. The warehouse was either in disuse or empty for the night. _

"_Help me," she said, her voice wan and shaky. "Please help me."_

_Sam's head began to hurt, as if he were somehow in the vision, or maybe as if it wasn't a vision at all. This was different. He didn't usually feel as though he was present in them, but he felt like more than an observer. Maybe…maybe it was real and he could help her. There was sudden pain, a railroad spike in his brain. At the same time he clutched uselessly at his head, blood started leaking from both of the woman's nostrils and her cries grew louder, more guttural. Sam hunched over. He looked up, making eye contact with the woman. She __**saw**__ him. She knew he was there. He was flooded with confusion and panic._

"_Please, Sam, you have to help me."_

_Sam gasped. The pain in his head brought him to his knees, the jolt from the hard floor ricocheting through him. It shouldn't be possible. She couldn't know his name. He wasn't there with her. He reached for the woman anyway. There was so much blood now. All he could see was coated in crimson. Her blood, and his own, too, slick warmth he recognized at his upper lip. Up close, he could taste her terror, pungent like salt and metal. He could feel her pain as his own, electric and sharp. She stared right at him, her face a rictus of horror._

"_This will be Dean," she said, but somehow it was not her. Her body radiated the pain she was in. Her voice, though, was cold calculation. "It can be your brother, in pain like this, at any time. In any place."_

_He reeled back, and fell to the floor. The agony was so much it stole his breath away, stole everything. __**Dean**__, he thought, was all he could think, __**Dean and no, no, no.**_

"_Do what I want and I won't hurt Dean," the woman said, weakly. "I promise, Sam, I promise we won't touch Dean if you just do what we want and come alone."_

_The woman screamed. Sam screamed along with her, silently though, writhing and pleading and terrified. He couldn't speak. He wasn't there, he wasn't there, it wasn't real. The woman screamed and screamed and screamed, voice rising in pitch but decreasing in volume until it just ended. It left behind a faint hum, a ringing in his ears for a moment, and then there was nothing at all._

Sam opened his eyes and sat up slowly, but not slowly enough to prevent an unpleasant wave of pain and slight skittering of his sight. The persistent headache from the vision required more than a few Tylenol, which hadn't even made a dent. He refused to medicate more than that, afraid to be impaired by drugs. They couldn't afford for him to take the time he needed to recover, so he shoved the discomfort aside. A headache wasn't a serious affliction, the way a random nosebleed wasn't either. Sam unconsciously touched his lower lip. His fingers stayed clean.

Dean moved back a step, perching on the edge of the TV stand.

"Dean," Sam said. "It was like I felt what she felt those last few moments. I can't even begin to describe it. You don't understand. Dean, please, I can't…you can't…."

Emotion flickered subtly across Dean's face, a mix of regret and disbelief and so many other things. He thought Dean prided himself on being unreadable and stoic, only Sam had grown up watching his brother, studying him. He knew when Dean lied, when he was in pain and when he was freaked beyond belief. Right now Dean met that last criteria on quite a few levels. Sam had to admit he was right there with him. Dean crossed his arms, expression schooling into careful blankness. Sam knew that for what it was, too.

"Hey, I'm the one who had to scrape you off of the floor, man," Dean said, bent forward slightly for emphasis. "I might not have felt the pain, but I get how bad this is."

"Then you understand why I have to do this alone from here on out."

"No, I understand why you shouldn't do it alone. You scared the crap of me back there, Sammy." Dean stood up and paced to the table. He gripped a chair and leaned down a little, like he needed it to brace himself up. "You're not going to just walk into something blind."

"Dean, the woman's brain basically melted in her skull."

"And I won't be used as a bartering tool in some evil kid's game," Dean said, as if Sam hadn't said a word. "So if you go, I go. We're a package deal on this one."

Dean pulled the chair out and sat down, his stare at Sam as good as a dare.

Sam wanted to pound his fists against the bed in frustrated anger, as he had so many times in his life when faced with his stubborn father and brother. In a few short months he and his brother would no longer _be_ a package deal. Dean seemed to forget that only when it was convenient. Sam understood there were two sets of rules in Dean's book – the one where Sam was concerned and the one for himself. Hell, Sam had those same rules in reverse. He would do anything for Dean, even if it meant disregarding his own safety. Sam flopped back down on the bed. The oily stain on the ceiling swirled a little.

"You didn't actually see anything to give us a place to look, but we know the woman is in the warehouse district. That narrows it down enough. You said it was night. Do you think that means it hasn't happened yet?"

"I'm not sure, Dean," Sam said tiredly.

"There wasn't anything in the paper or the news at noon. I think we might still have a shot at saving her."

Sam couldn't find it in him to care about the woman as much as he should. Being consciously aware of his own callousness didn't actually make him feel anything either. The pervasive idea of Dean suffering like that _(blood, blood everywhere)_ because of _him_ was too heavy a burden to allow room for others, or at least that was how he justified it to himself. Was it so horrible that if it meant keeping Dean safe and with him for a while longer, he was willing to let someone else die? Probably. It probably made him a lousy human being. He wasn't sure he cared all that much about his own soul when Dean's was at stake.

"How exactly do you think we could do that?" Sam said softly. They could maybe get to her physically, but they couldn't stop someone from damaging her insides. "I hate to say it, Dean, but even if she's still alive and we happen to find her, she's already collateral damage."

Dean didn't say anything. Sam couldn't look at him. He knew what expression his brother had on his face, and he couldn't bear to see it. Dean's disapproval and disbelief would make him soften despite himself, and he couldn't do that when it was Dean's life on the line. In the otherwise silent room, the plink of water from a leaky bathroom sink faucet resonated loudly.

"I can't believe you of all people just said that. It doesn't mean we shouldn't try," Dean said at last. "And if you're not down with the whole sticking together thing, then I'll just go find her myself."

That got Sam's attention, as Dean probably figured it would. Sam's mind raced with possible ways of stopping his brother from carrying out the threat. The most appealing idea at that particular moment was knocking Dean unconscious and tying him up. Dean would hate him for that, but Dean would be okay. If Sam felt less shaky, he would exercise that option. No. No, there had to be another way.

"You're not going to give up, are you?" Sam said, trying to sound resigned. It wasn't difficult to fake.

"I'll assume that's a rhetorical question."

Sam looked up to where Dean sat quirking a humorless smile. _Self-satisfied jerk_, Sam thought, _I am not letting you do this_.

"I managed to narrow it down even more while you were sleeping. There are currently only ten empty warehouses in that district. We can start with those. You feel up for this right now?"

"It doesn't matter. Time isn't on that woman's or our side, Dean," he said with as much earnest conviction he could muster. He sat up and wobbled on the bed, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple, like he was suffering major vertigo. "Whoa."

"Maybe you need some more rest first." Dean frowned at him worriedly.

"Maybe." Sam smiled weakly and tried to look apologetic. Dean continued to act skittish, for him anyway. Dean's stomach growled loud enough to be heard across the room. "Maybe you should get something to eat while I lie down for a while longer. We could both use the extra energy."

Dean narrowed his eyes for a second, and for that second Sam feared his brother doubted him. Which he should, but Sam counted on the fraction of truth in his words to count for something. He eased back down and pretended to get comfortable on the pillow that smelled vaguely of countless other people's old body oil and bleach. It _was_ true that he wasn't up for anything strenuous. He knew if Dean went where Sam knew he had to go, then he would be in no position, physically or otherwise, to help when things happened. If he went alone, then he didn't think he had to worry.

Apparently content with his assessment of Sam, Dean finally relaxed and nodded. "Bring you back anything?"

"I wouldn't turn down a turkey sandwich with extra pickles," Sam said. His stomach roiled. "Something that'll keep for a bit in case I fall asleep."

"Okay, one turkey sammie for Sammy," Dean said as he shrugged his jacket on.

Sam groaned and rolled his eyes.

"I'll be back in a few minutes."

Sam closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of Dean getting ready to leave. They weren't personal noises, keys jangling, leather rubbing in an almost squeak, but they were important and very much his brother. One day he wouldn't have the sounds of another life so close. Today might even be the last day for him to just relax and know Dean was right there. The doorknob rattled and Dean was through the door, walking away from him. Sam opened his eyes and waited. He lay motionless for seven minutes, three hundred and eighty-five drips of the bathroom faucet, before he moved.

He knew exactly where to find the woman, had known since the vision. It was just that _Dean_ couldn't know. Sam thought about writing a note, reconsidered when it just seemed cheesy. Besides, he didn't know what to say. Dean would never forgive him for meeting with this _special_ kid all by himself, but Sam was okay with that. Dean would live. That was all that mattered. He left the room quickly, and didn't look back.

*

Sam thought he was pretty clever, and had done so since he was able to talk in near-complete sentences at eighteen months old. As far as book smarts went, intelligence qualified and quantified by academic marks, his little brother was a genius. Sam did, however, tend to fail to appreciate that Dean was no slouch in the brains department himself. He might speak in layman's terms and wear a blue collar, but Dean was smart where it counted. Although still admittedly worried and freaked to hell about Sam's collapse, he knew something was up the second Sam capitulated and agreed that together they should find the evil son of a bitch who killed just for the hell of it. Dean was well aware he tended to bully Sam into giving up an argument. This hadn't been like that.

For one thing, Sam went from _no, no, no_ to _okay, sure_ in a matter of seconds. No matter how compelling Dean's bully tactics were, they didn't work instantaneously. For another thing, Dean knew precisely how Sam felt, understood the desperate need to protect. He knew what he'd do if the situations were reversed, which was why Dean had left the room to get food without any real intention of actually getting food. The feeling in his gut had nothing to do with hunger. It told him Sam wasn't being completely honest with him, and that he needed to keep an eye on his brother. So after parking the car out of sight around the corner, he ducked into a used bookstore across the street from the motel. It took Sam all of ten minutes to exit their room, still looking too pale and shaky. Dean clenched his jaw. At least that part of Sam's act was genuine, though unhappily so.

"Can I help you find something, sir?" Dean jerked slightly, turning to look at the store clerk, who eyed him with suspicion. "Perhaps you'd like to purchase that book?"

"No, sorry. I'm just browsing," Dean said. He put the book he'd grabbed – _Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III,_ he saw with embarrassment – back on the shelf and smiled awkwardly. "I'll, ah, just be going now."

"Yes, I think you should," the clerk said, like Dean was a prime candidate for shoplifting.

Dean scowled and returned his attention to Sam … except Sam wasn't standing outside the motel anymore. Dean headed for the door, looking frantically through the big plate glass windows, and up and down the street, before he even exited the bookstore. The distraction of the clerk couldn't have taken more than fifteen seconds, too short a time for Sam to disappear completely. Yet Sam was gone. It wasn't like Sam was even _trying_ to evade him, which made it all the worse. Dean trotted toward the car. He knew approximately where to look; he'd search warehouse by warehouse until he found what he was looking for. He ignored the obvious flaw in the plan, that the lady in Sam's vision was a false lead.

It took him hours, long hours filled with painful thoughts about what could be happening with Sam, for him to prowl around the warehouse district. Dean started to think toward the end that it really had been a false lead, that Sam had neglected to tell him the psychic kid had told him exactly where to go, and that it wasn't anywhere near there. It was like Murphy's Law gone wrong that it took him nine searches to finally find Sam in the last vacant warehouse on his list.

Sam and the woman, too, who unfortunately was still alive. By unfortunately, he meant for her. It was her sobs and cries of pain that alerted him the second he skulked through the door that he'd finally found the right place. They were unpleasant to hear.

"Please, I'm here like you wanted," Sam said, voice craggy with emotion. "You can let her go now."

Dean clenched his jaw, not sure he was really that pleased to hear Sam was affected by the woman's plight. He didn't want his brother to be some cold thing, but it was agony for _him_ to hear the anguish in Sam's voice. When the only reply Sam seemed to get was the woman letting out another weak mewl of pain, he wondered how many times Sam had pleaded for her release, only to indirectly cause her more pain. Dean crouched behind a pile of pallets, staying hidden.

He didn't know why he didn't step out into the open. Dean did a visual scan of the big room, searching for signs anyone else was there. He didn't see anyone, but there were plenty of places to hide, behind packing crates, in the outer lying office spaces. Hell, for all Dean knew, this freak could hide in plain sight. Invisibility was a bit cheesy sci-fi flick for his tastes, but he couldn't rule it out, not with Andy's van as evidence to the contrary.

"Please, Sam, you have to help me," the woman said.

Oh, damn, she and Sam were on a first name basis. Dean clenched his jaw, hating the pain her pleas must be causing his brother.

"Come on, tell me what the hell you want already." Sam sounded pissed off now. "Why do we have to go through all of this again?"

The woman let out another wrenching cry, and blood started oozing from her nose and ears. Shit. Sam went down on his knees in front of her with a muffled grunt, clutching at whatever he could to keep upright. That was it. Like hell he was just going to sit there while Sam's vision played out in Technicolor before him. Dean started moving from his hiding place, weapon drawn and ready, but froze when laughter drowned out the woman's pain and Sam's gasps. It was cold, unfeeling laughter. It seemed to come from everywhere all at the same time, echoing off walls in a cacophony. Like there was more than one person laughing. Dean clenched his jaw, unhappy at that idea.

"Because it's kind of fun, Sam."

One second, it was just Sam and the woman. The next, a floppy-haired kid wearing faded jeans and a dark t-shirt under a loose plaid shirt stood just behind his brother, with a chilling smile on his face. Buck hadn't been too stoned to get a good look – the kid really _was_ a kid, no more than thirteen. Dean frowned in confusion. That wasn't possible, it couldn't be. Azazel, that yellow-eyed bastard, had only shown up again after twenty-two years. Dean started forward again, but he couldn't move. He tensed his muscles and tried harder, got nowhere. What the hell? He was stuck in place, literally. He opened his mouth to shout out to Sam, when he stated getting a familiar feeling, like his brain being pulled through his nose. Oh, shit. He watched Sam clumsily turn toward the kid.

"What … you're just a kid," Sam gasped. "Where did you come from?"

"I've been around."

"You're doing this." Sam looked confused. The kid raised a hand and gave some sort of signal. A second later, the woman cried out again and Sam buckled at the waist. "Stop. I'm here, like you wanted."

"You're right, I don't have to do any of this," the kid said as he walked close to Sam. Dean tried harder to break whatever hold was on him; it was useless. "I told you, it's fun."

"Please, please," the woman said.

"Just stop it, okay?" The kid gestured again, and Sam's face twitched. He groaned and clutched at his head. "How…?"

"Am I doing that? Practice, Sam. People like us, well, it turns out we don't have a get-out-of-jail-free card after all. Or maybe my generation was just built better than yours." The kid shrugged.

Damn it if he didn't _sound_ like ol' yellow-eyes. But, generation? Dean didn't like the implications of that.

"We don't _want_ to hurt you, Sam, but you broke the rules."

Sam let out a horrible cry and fell, bracing himself with one hand while the other held his head. The woman screamed, a nonstop wail now, ever weakening until she stopped completely. Dean knew she was dead and not just unconscious. Her head was turned in his direction, eyes staring sightlessly. Sam was left heaving and gasping for breath. Dean watched helplessly, his own head starting to hurt worse. A dull throb set up right behind his eyes. After a minute or two, Sam straightened. Blood streamed from his nose. He gave a sad headshake toward the dead woman, closing his eyes for a second.

"I didn't break the rules." Sam's shoulders slumped. "You didn't have to do that."

"One, _I_ didn't actually do it." The kid tilted his head, pondering the corpse almost scientifically. "And two, you're not a good liar."

"What?"

"We told you to come alone, Sam. You must have thought we were joking."

Shit.

"I _did_ come alone," Sam said desperately, but he gave a brief glance exactly where Dean was crouched.

If he could have moved, Dean would have jerked back in surprise. Sam knew he was there, somehow. That scared the crap out of him.

"I came on my own."

"Maybe you did. Maybe your brother followed you, but you had to know he would. You could have stopped him if you really wanted to. But I guess it doesn't matter. He's here and we don't want him to be, but since he is, it could be interesting."

Something shook Dean's right arm, until he released the handgun to the floor with a clatter. It slid away as if propelled, and then … levitated three feet off the ground. In firing position, the gun aimed right at his gut and floated closer. It felt like there were invisible hands all over him, pushing and pulling, making him move. He was a marionette, and there was nothing he could do about it. He'd be used against Sam now. He couldn't even protest the rough treatment, or let Sam know he was okay. Not that he was okay. Sam clambered to his feet, swayed slightly, and looked about a second from hurling. He wiped a sleeve across the blood trail, smeared and smudged most of it away.

"Dean," Sam said out loud, a whisper, while the pained, concerned, angry look in his eyes said it all.

He wanted to tell Sam not to let himself be so open, but one look at the smug smile on the kid's face said that would be worthless advice. So Dean settled on a silent apology, which wasn't nearly enough. Sam's expression softened a little, but Dean still saw the lurking fear. The woman's body slid off the chair like she'd been pushed, landing on the floor with a thump that made Sam wince. Dean tensed every muscle, struggling against the unseen hands guiding him. He failed, of course, and found himself pinned to the chair. The seat was still warm from its previous occupant. The invisible hand feeling went away, but he remained immobile except for his head.

"Dean, you okay?" Sam said, turning so he stood sideways, his attention split between Dean and the nameless kid.

Dean raised his eyebrows, tried to talk and still couldn't.

Sam frowned at him, pursed his lips and looked at the kid. "I want you to leave him out of this."

"We were going to, but Dean kind of insisted on it," the kid said, making yet another indistinct hand gesture. "Didn't you, Dean?"

The blade Dean had strapped to his calf dislodged itself, hovered in front of him for a second before it flew forward and sliced through his left arm. It wasn't deep, but Dean cried out, given his voice back at last. Sam lunged for him, halted when the blade re-aimed, midair, in his direction. It was like Max Miller all over again. Dean tried to figure out just how many tricks this kid had up his sleeve. Brain melting, telekinesis, mind control…and he'd apparently been the one that had kept Andy's van invisible to everyone but him and Sam, given the way he'd just appeared like that. Dean decided he didn't really want to find out all of the other things the kid could do. It just made him more dangerous. A fucking _kid_.

"Stop." Sam made fists of his hands, and took a step toward the kid. Trust Sam to try to negotiate with a crazy person who was already off the deep end. "_Stop_. You don't have to do any of this. The yellow-eyed man is dead."

"Yeah, I know. Your brother killed him, which is more than enough reason to end him right here, right now." The knife pivoted between Dean and Sam, as if the kid was deciding whom to skewer. "Nah, we discovered we don't really need Yellow-Eyes anymore."

"Then why are you doing this?" Sam looked frazzled, about ready to fly into a million pieces. "What do you want?"

"We want you, Sam."

"F-for what?" Sam said.

"Who's we?" Dean said at the same time, paused, happy his vocal chords actually worked for something other than crying out in pain. "You keep saying that, but you're all alone here."

The kid sneered at him, and snapped his fingers.

Out of nowhere, other kids started appearing. Two right beside him, several along the far wall. All over the place. Each of them wore nearly identical clothes – plaid or striped shirts with rolled up sleeves, and worn jeans. Shaggy hair cut in the same style, when possible. Dean counted ten from his limited vantage point.

Sam did a slow circle, wavering slightly.

_Holy shit_, Dean thought, _holy shit_. All of the kids … they looked like, or were trying to look just like Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Have you ever gotten broccoli or a fleck of pepper stuck in your teeth and not known it? Yeah. This is me saying to myself, "SBG, your insecurities are showin' and no one needs to see them." I could blame the upcoming holidays, the four-day migraine or the fact that my muse has **deserted** me, but ultimately it boils down to the insecurity. I can usually get over it without letting it show, but sometimes I look at other stories and wonder how in the heck they're getting hundreds of hits/reviews...whoop, there I go again. Enough of that. Thank you all for the nudges of encouragement._

_On with the story, eh? We can't leave Dean restrained by crazy kids and Sam angsting about it._

**All the Little Children  
Chapter Four**

At first, Sam thought he was hallucinating, or somehow otherwise being made to see what wasn't there. They came from nowhere, one right after another, as if they stood behind a curtain being drawn back by an invisible hand. Sam barely held on to an upright position, head pounding, stomach aching, and muscles shaking. He did a slow turn, wobbling slightly. He counted fifteen. They all looked back at him with the same cold calculation in their eyes. He swallowed a couple times, suddenly certain this wasn't in his head. They were just kids, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, but they had a certain hardness that was far older. And evil. Their eyes were dead, emotionless, just so wrong.

"What in the hell?" Dean said, quiet and confused.

Sam couldn't remember if he'd ever mentioned to Dean that Azazel told him about other generations of kids in a way that seemed to indicate there were many, many of them. It was one of those things, he thought, he had omitted out of fear and the need to learn more himself. Like Mom's connection to it all, and the demon blood pumping through his veins even now.

It was also one of those things associated with Cold Oak, a reference to events neither of them wanted to talk about if they didn't have to. There hadn't been time to even think about it himself, really. Part of Sam had assumed that if his generation had been wiped out chances were good other generations had met the same fate. He hadn't had the time to devote to finding out, not when so much of his concentration was focused on keeping Dean alive at the end of his twelve months. All the excuses in the world weren't going to make this go away.

"Maybe we should start over," the kid said with a chilly smile. "My name's Anthony, and, no, you can't call me Tony."

"Well, Tony, I'd say it's nice to meet you, but it's nuggh…" Dean's voice cut out, leaving him only with muffled groaning sounds. "Mmmph."

"Now I just said you couldn't call me Tony, Dean."

"What are you doing to him?" Sam said.

Sam moved closer to his brother, stepping over the dead woman with a grimace. He grasped the back of the chair to stay somewhat steady. He knew it wouldn't work, but he tugged at Dean's shoulders, trying to get his brother free. Anthony chuckled, and then like an echo, all fifteen other children laughed in precisely the same way. The sound was eerie, and familiar to Sam in some way. Dean continued to issue muffled groans, probably clever insults and curses, while Sam latched onto his good arm and held on.

"That won't work, Sam," Anthony said, with another small laugh. Again, all the other kids laughed, too. "You know there's nothing you can do to free him. Yet."

"Yet?" It was disconcerting. Sam couldn't seem to get his head around the situation, distracted by Dean's presence, Dean's pain and his own damned weakness. "I don't…."

"You probably have a _ton_ of questions. First things first, we'll do introductions later. You've got time to get to know everyone else. For now it's simpler to just talk to me."

Anthony strolled toward him, all adolescent swagger. The kid contained none of the awkwardness most twelve-year-old boys possessed. Sam knew already, even still confused, that he had to stop thinking of Anthony, of all of them, as being kids. It was clear they were not, not any longer, with willful murder of innocent humans under their collective belts. He couldn't figure out how there were so many of them. Anthony plucked the knife from the air, where it still floated. The boy looked at its bloodied edge thoughtfully, before transferring his attention to Dean. Without warning, he drove the knife into Dean's existing wound and twisted. Dean choked, throwing back his head in clear pain.

Sam pulled at Anthony's arm, grabbing the knife. It exited Dean's flesh with a wet, slurping sound. He thought Anthony had _allowed_ him to take hold of the knife, the only reason for the success. After only a moment in his hand, the weapon flew from his grip, landing on the floor across the room, next to a boy, no, a girl who looked impossibly small for her age. She picked it up by the blade and balanced it on the tip of her pointer finger. Sam looked away from her.

"_Whatever_ it is you want I can assure you, you will not get it if you keep hurting my brother," Sam said through clenched teeth, anger and concern making clarity of thought return faster. He examined Dean's arm. The wound was jagged and ugly, but it wasn't the worst thing Dean had ever endured.

Dean stared at him with intensity, his mouth forming words Sam couldn't hear.

Sam looked away, disturbed by the image of Dean's muted attempts to talk. It seemed he couldn't look anywhere without being disturbed. "So just tell me what the hell you brought me here for."

"Oh, Sam, I thought you were supposed to be smart." Anthony tilted his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw all the other kids do the same. Dean mumbled something that this time Sam knew was another _what the hell_ without hearing the words. It looked like monkey see, monkey do, but Sam didn't think Anthony was controlling the other kids. They just naturally moved together like a communal entity, like foot soldiers marching, which was actually a scary prospect. He didn't know if he could get to all of them, if he had to. He looked around the circle of faces and finally noticed they were all dressed the same; most of them had the same haircut. His clothes, his hair. Jesus.

"You probably thought we were like your generation, that ol' Yellow-Eyes weeded through us to get to the last one standing," Anthony said. "But that would be a waste, wouldn't it? I thought it was kind of stupid for him to do that to you guys, but at least his mistake didn't make it down to us."

"You all lived," Sam said, still fishing for information.

"Well, no." Anthony mocked up a sad face and a headshake, which was mirrored all around by the other kids. The circle tightened slightly, each of them taking a step forward. "Vanessa was a weak baby, so she totally had to go. And don't get me started on Jack and Daniel. All they wanted to do was be _normal_ again. I don't get why anyone would want normal after they had this. What a couple of whiners."

"You killed them."

"They killed themselves."

The vague illness Sam felt now had less to do with his physical state than it did with his mental state. Anthony showed no remorse at all. He looked disgusted not for the loss of life but for the apparent weakness of those poor children. The thought that this cold, evil heartlessness was the way Sam was supposed to be, or _was_ somewhere deep down, troubled him. He couldn't believe it of himself, and desperately wanted it to not be true about these kids.

"What about your families? People who care about you?"

"Not important anymore. Besides, they were never our real families. _We're_ our real family, Sam, and you're part of it. We all share the same blood, the blood he gave all of us."

That unleashed a string of angry mumbles from Dean. Sam gave his brother a guilty glance, not surprised to see the veins in Dean's neck standing out as he kept struggling to break free. He hadn't wanted Dean to find out about Azazel's _gift_ to him this way, hadn't wanted his brother to find out at all. Hell, it was something he'd tried damned hard to forget about himself, chalking up the way he sometimes felt about a hunt – detached, distant, cold – as mere experience, an instinctive progression away from empathy toward practicality. Hunt, or be hunted. Kill, or be killed. Deep within himself, as he stood there staring at Anthony and the others, a part of Sam identified with them. It didn't matter how small that part was. It existed. And it terrified him.

"It makes us strong, all of us."

"All of us," the kids repeated.

"Mme mmar morg."

Though still unintelligible, Sam knew Dean had just made a Borg reference, betraying his inner geek. Sam half smiled and nodded at his brother, thinking the same thing. The hive mentality creeped him out, though probably for slightly different reasons than it did Dean. Sometimes, Sam swore he heard the kids speaking when they hadn't, faint whispers of words and thoughts tickling on the edges. Dean blinked at him, looked confused and scared, that brewing-just-below-the-surface, barely there but _huge_ kind of fear. Sam didn't think the psycho kids had that much to do with it. He let the half smile fade away. There were bigger things to be afraid of. Like him. No, not him. He wouldn't, couldn't live with his brother being scared of him.

"It makes you evil," Sam said, "not strong."

"And what would make us strong? Just saying no? But it feels so good to say yes. You should try it again sometime."

"So good," parroted the others. "Try it."

God, they were like a group of bad backup singers, and totally getting on his nerves. Sam flicked his gaze back to the girl with the knife. If he wanted it enough, he wondered, maybe he could get the blade to come to him. He looked back at Anthony, who smiled as if he knew exactly what Sam was thinking. Sam pursed his lips and stared back.

"We waited for you, you know," Anthony said. "After everything went down, some of us thought you'd come. But you never did and we got sick of waiting around."

"So you set up the thing with Andy's van, killed innocent people, just to lure me here."

"No one is really innocent, Sam."

Sam did another slow circle. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. Hope, maybe, that at least one kid wasn't evil. All he got for his trouble were cold glares and increased unsteadiness. These kids didn't need him, they'd proven that, but they apparently wanted him. They'd expected him to come. They were supposed to be part of his army, he thought, maybe even ranking officers. _Kids._ Sick anger swelled within him, for what was done to these children, and what they in turn had done to others. He kept searching their faces. One of the kids, chubby and awkward and so similar to how he had been at twelve, nodded at him. It was an almost nonexistent thing, hardly noticeable. Sam didn't understand what it meant, if anything at all.

"You expect me to lead you," Sam said. Dean mumble-swore some more. "Why would I do that? How could I? Yellow-Eyes is dead, and so are what few powers I had."

"We _all_ know that's not true," Anthony said, smiling at Dean as the kids played echo once again. "I think you already know why you'll do it, but maybe you need a reminder."

Sam stepped between Dean and Anthony, as if that would keep his brother from getting hurt. This time the weapon of choice wasn't a physical one. Sam didn't give any pretense in hiding his emotions; there was no need. Everyone in the room knew what he felt. Even if Dean hadn't followed him there, he thought the kids would have still used him. Dean had been right about that, like Anthony was right about why Sam would go with them. He felt it the second Dean's pain became too much for him to bear. His brother grimaced, letting out a strangled groan. Sam _felt_ Dean. _Squeezingheartohgodithurtshelpgonnadie_ all rushed at him along with the visible signs of Dean's suffering. He didn't know if it was thought or feeling or both. It didn't matter. It was Dean.

"Okay," Sam said, far more calmly than he thought possible. _I can't let Dean die,_ was all he thought and he didn't care who knew it. "You've proven your point."

Dean's breathing eased a bit, but remained ragged. Sam looked at him. Saw and somehow heard Dean's _Don't do this, Sammy_. Funny how their pleas for each other were almost identical, or maybe it was more like tragic. Maybe if he went with these kids he'd have access to things that would help him save Dean for more than just right now. He didn't know, but he did know he couldn't lose Dean today. He was nowhere near ready to live in a world without his brother, whether they were together in it or not.

"I'll go with you." Dean's nostrils flared at his words, panic seemed to deepen the green of his eyes. Sam apologized silently, looking away. "But only if you never do anything like this to my brother again."

"I suppose you want us to pinky swear."

Sam knew that trusting them was like trusting a snake not to bite. It wasn't about trust, at least not between him and them. Anthony smiled at him, in that cold, knowing way that had been aggravating the first time he did it.

"Let's just say that if I do go with you, and I do somehow become this mystical leader you seem to think I am ... and you do hurt Dean again, it'll be the last thing you ever do."

"Ooooh," Anthony said, shivering exaggeratedly, "Scary."

"You don't believe me?"

Sam took a step toward the kid. On the fringes of awareness, he heard a faint buzzing and felt a recognizable pressure in his skull. _No, not this time_, he thought, and mentally pushed back against the feeling. For the first time, Anthony's countenance lost some of its smug evilness. There was a flicker of fear first, and then satisfaction. Sam could feel it, the desire to give in and use the powers he knew he had buried somewhere, had never fully believed were gone. He swallowed a couple of times.

"I believe you."

"So your choices are don't hurt him, kill us both right now, or hurt him later and _I_ kill _you_."

Dean growled. If Sam knew his brother, and oh he did, Dean would keep trying to stop this forever, and by this Sam didn't mean the simple devil's deal he was making. The kids seemed amused by Dean's reaction. Sam spread his hands out and focused on Anthony, who didn't seem too concerned by the death threat. Sam couldn't take them all down, but he could take the one he needed to.

"Well?"

"One last Jedi Mind Trick. Emily."

"Give Sam your car keys, Dean," a soft voice said from somewhere behind him.

Dean moved. Rather, someone moved for him. Sam was horrified. Knowing his brother wasn't in control made it discomfiting to watch, as Dean's actions were stilted, mechanical. He held out his hand after Dean withdrew the keys from a pocket. He felt rather than saw Dean's hand shake with the unsuccessful effort to stop the force moving his arm and hand. Because it was all he had and all he dared to do, Sam grabbed his brother's fingers and squeezed for a second. Sam hoped Dean knew he was sorry it had gone down the way it had, but that he wasn't sorry Dean would live. Sam had to do what he had to do.

"Aww," Anthony said.

Sam dropped his hand. The keys jangled, heavy in his grasp.

"Let's go, Sam. Enough holding hands. We've got places to go, people to kill. Things to talk about."

Sam choked a little, appalled by the blasé way Anthony spoke.

"Tell me you'll let him go first."

"All these demands. So boring." Anthony jutted his chin toward the door. The rest of the kids filed out of the warehouse. "But they're kind of like orders, aren't they? In that case I'll do what you want, Sam. We'll let him up after an hour or so. I promise. Cross my heart."

He didn't really believe Anthony, but he didn't seem to have many choices and he _did_ believe in Dean. His brother would be okay. A good, bad or ugly decision, he followed the kids away, without sparing his brother a glance until he was almost behind a pile of pallets. Sam made eye contact from a distance, just for a millisecond, and then he turned away again because the desperate look on Dean's face was unbearable. He'd been so consumed lately with preventing Dean from leaving him, so terrified of that because Dean had _never_ once left him. It was he himself who kept walking away. There was terrible cruelness in that, for both of them.

*

An hour or five minutes, it didn't make much of a difference. The time Dean had spent trapped in the warehouse with only a few enormous rats and a dead woman for company was endless, his mind filled with what if scenarios and frustration and stark fear. Sam had kept things from him, BIG things. Sam had demon blood in him. Sam had voluntarily joined that group of evil pipsqueaks. Sam had _left _him.

But Dean couldn't pretend he didn't understand why any more than he could pretend he wasn't more frightened than angry. Before Sam had died and come back to life, Dean would never have doubted that his brother would be fine in the company of evil. He would have been frantic with the need to protect and save, but he would know Sam would still be Sam at the end of the day. Now, though, he couldn't say that and the need to save and protect was underlain with dread that even if he miraculously found Sam, his brother wouldn't be his brother, that every minute Sam spent with kids so far gone would be one minute closer to the darkness.

Dean stared down at his phone. He thought again about calling Bobby for help, knew their friend would be there in a flash, like he'd been so often in the past. Then he thought maybe Missouri could help, because she was even closer. He tossed the phone on the bed and scrubbed a hand down his face instead. It was the middle of the night, and neither one of his friends could help him now or ever. No one could.

He was the guy who traded his soul to the devil for a handful of magic beans, only to find out those beans were an illusion. He stared at Sam's open duffel bag, the laptop over on the table. Both items seemed like tokens. He couldn't help but wonder if his brother had ever really been there at all. Dean physically shook himself out of those thoughts. He had to _do_ something besides sit around with his thumb up his ass. He wasn't so preoccupied he didn't recognize the irony of being in the situation he'd so not wanted to be in.

The problem was he didn't have a thing to go on. In the first few hours after he'd regained the ability to move his own limbs, he'd been all over the place. He'd thought someone, somewhere must have seen a big guy in need of a haircut surrounded by sixteen kids in need of the same haircut. He was still confused about those kids' existence, but they should have been memorable. They'd been in the middle of an industrial district, though, which housed only transients and people who knew better than to see anything even if they saw it. No amount of charm had helped, and so there he was feeling exactly like he had when Meg snatched Sam, when Azazel had taken him that last time. Sam was just _gone. _Dean feared nothing but luck would help him, and luck was unreliable. He tried to quell the panic rising inside him.

"Damnit, Sam," he said out loud. "What am I supposed to do now?"

The duffel and laptop, all that he had left of his brother for now, didn't respond. He felt like an idiot for talking to an empty room. Dean didn't know what he'd even do if he knew where to look. Been there, done that, got the whammy. He was outnumbered. The sloppily tended-to stab wound in his arm was a constant reminder of how powerless he was. He didn't even have any weapons. Though he wasn't particularly interested in dispatching the kids, it was true they couldn't be allowed to keep doing what they were doing. Honestly, he didn't really want to think about having to kill them. They were just kids, albeit kids with a nasty penchant for homicide. Sam might have been privy to two of their killings, but like that Anthony kid had said – they'd been practicing, for months.

He sat up straighter. He and Sam hadn't looked before. They hadn't thought to look for other things that could be connected to Azazel; all they'd done was focus on figuring out how _Sullivan_ had been connected, or rather how he hadn't been connected. Dean moved over to the laptop and powered it up. He didn't know the full scope of what to look for, but he could search for other mysterious, unexpected suicides and people who dropped dead from strange brain-liquefying maladies. Chances were those two definitive _skills_ had been practiced at some point.

He logged on to the Lawrence Journal-World website. He didn't have a specific point of reference, but he assumed a similar pattern fit with this younger generation. Sam had apparently known about them but had never bothered to tell him about them. Dean clenched his jaw. Not that he was upset about that at all. He figured he could go back in the archives to about the time Ava had disappeared. Beyond that, he just didn't know. Kids could have vanished long before Ava had.

Kids. That was another angle he could use. Now that he knew to look for twelve-year-old kidnap or runaway headlines, he might actually find something useful. Anything at all would do. Dean started, if not to feel better exactly, at least like he was doing something that could produce results. The search was slower than it would have been with Sam at the keyboard, but soon Dean moved with greater efficiency, and he became absorbed in the task. After hours, though, it seemed a waste of time. He found nothing at all in the Lawrence area or in nearby communities, or anywhere in the state.

"It's starting to look like we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto," he muttered.

That wasn't good news, and Dean wished he wasn't right. He knew he was. He stood up and stretched, muscles cramped from hunching over the computer for too long. A quick glance at his watch revealed he'd lost another three hours, should be sleeping. There was no way he could sleep. His mind was too filled with thoughts of Sam succumbing to the dark side. Or worse. Those damned kids weren't going to follow anyone not down with their agenda, so that meant either Sam would cross the line or he'd be dead. Shit, shit and then some more shit.

Speaking of shit, he started a pot of cheap motel coffee. Dean moved to the window and peered out through the drapes. If he had to hit the road, he was going to have to borrow a car since the Impala was as gone as Sam. The lot didn't hold much. A rusty old Gremlin, no. An '84 Grand Marquis, that was a maybe. Ah, a Ford F150. He wasn't really into trucks, but it would do. The coffeemaker beeped. He poured a cup and got back to work, searching once again for a Sam-shaped needle in a very large haystack. There was no Andy Gallagher to send him a beacon this time, no way he could expect a mental phone call from any of the mini-me Sam clones. He grimaced, really hated the idea of an evil army of small soldiers that looked like his brother.

He had a sudden thought, though. Azazel had dropped Sam and his generation in a dead ghost town, and not coincidentally they all ended up as dead as Cold Oak. Almost all. Cold Oak was a supernaturally oriented location. Maybe the younger generation had been taken and put somewhere with a similar history, only not a place already dead and abandoned. Dean would start with New Orleans, easily the most haunted city in the United States. After Katrina wiped it out, it was the perfect place to set up a bona fide boot camp for evil kids. Bare bones police department, an upswing of crime even before the forces of hell were unleashed, and lots of unoccupied spaces made it his best option.

It took him about two minutes to figure out he was going to have to sift through a lot of human-related crimes to see if there were supernatural events hidden among them. He sighed and topped off his coffee cup. His eyes already felt like someone had taken sandpaper to them. Dean knew at some point he was going to have to sleep. He'd be of no use to Sam if he were dead on his feet.

He'd be of no use to Sam if he were dead, period, which made him think of other things. The more he considered his deal, the more he hated it for Sam, and a new element of regret was growing for himself as well. The fire and brimstone of hell would be nothing compared to the knowledge that he'd brought his brother back from the dead all wrong. _Nothing bad is going to happen to you as long as I'm around._ He'd said those words, and he now had to choke while he ate them.

Dean sighed, squinting at the laptop's screen. Murder, murder, gang-related violence, theft, more murder. His instinct told him New Orleans was the way to go, but he briefly perused other hot spots as well. Galveston, Texas was surprisingly clean. Gettysburg, Pennsylvania only had the usual haunts. The words started blurring on the screen. The caffeine from the coffee had made him jittery but didn't prevent exhaustion. He needed sleep if he was going to road trip to anywhere that wasn't Lawrence. He'd look closer at New Orleans after he slept for an hour. It felt like even an hour off was crucial.

He reluctantly moved away from the laptop and sprawled face first on what had been Sam's bed. He fell asleep within minutes. His dreams were filled with black horror and screams that wouldn't stop. Shrill, trilling screams. Like a phone. His phone. Dean rolled onto his back and peered around, confused by the phone ringing and the sunlight streaming through the drapes. The phone was on the bed he hadn't slept in, and he fumbled for it. He saw on the LED that it was an unknown caller. He flipped the phone open, disappointed it wasn't Sam even though he didn't expect it to be.

"Yeah," he said. There was a long pause, and followed by unsteady breathing on the other end of the line. "Hello, who is this?"

"Uhm, is this Detective Rather?"

Detective Rather? Dean furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, brain still half asleep and preoccupied with the cries and horrors of his dreams. And Sam, finding Sam and the kids before it was too late. It came to him after a second. Buck Zeise. It seemed like he and Sam had talked to the guy a long time ago. Days. Weeks. It had been a little over twenty-four hours.

"Yes."

"This is Buck. Buck Zeise?" Buck said, pausing again as if to let the information sink in. "You gave me your card to call you if I thought of something else."

"Yeah," Dean said. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Buck, I remember."

"I didn't think of something, exactly. Uhm. Did you know your car is in my parking garage and that it doesn't have Kansas plates? I didn't notice that before."

"What?" Dean blinked a couple of times. He must be more tired than he thought. "It is? How'd it get there?"

"Yeah. I don't really know how or when it got here. Last night sometime, maybe," Buck said awkwardly. He cleared his throat in Dean's ear. "You'd think I'd remember something like that. It must have been after my shift was over. But you'd think someone else would have seen it."

"Not really," Dean said.

"What?"

"What?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Dean didn't really care how or why the car ended up at the parking garage. It could have been Sam, he thought hopefully, or then again it could have been Anthony thinking he was the cleverest little shit on the planet. "It doesn't matter. Do you have the keys?"

"No. Wait." Dean heard rattling metal and paper rustling. "No, no keys but there's a towing slip from Bulldog Tow with a message written on it."

"Read it."

"It says 'don't follow'. What's that supposed to mean, I wonder?"

Like hell. Dean wasn't even sure where to go yet, but when he did he knew he'd go. Sam had to know that, assuming the message was from him. He clenched his jaw tightly. Hell, Anthony and his gang probably knew that, too. If he went, he'd go against Sam's wishes and would do exactly what the kids wanted.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Dean said.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Curses upon work for getting in my way. ;)_

**All the Little Children  
Chapter Five**

Dean would try to come after him, car or no car. Sam knew this was an unwavering truth, but at this point his brother's dedication worried him more than it comforted him. He suffered no illusions that the kids could kill both of them without much effort, and with even less cause. He hadn't thought much beyond keeping Dean alive when he made his decision to go with them, and now he had to figure out a way to get himself out of the corner he was backed into. It was a tight fit. He could barely turn around without running into one of the kids, who all seemed to want to be close to him. They were like puppies, always underfoot.

Except they were distant and cold and their need for his approval did not warm his heart. Not only had they made themselves look disconcertingly like him, but they had started mimicking his mannerisms before they'd even left Lawrence's city limits. Some of them were pretty good at it.

Sam had an idea what they expected from him, he just didn't have much of an idea how to thwart their hopes. They knew his greatest weakness already and had successfully exploited it easily. They could do it again and again as they tried to make him … be who they wanted him to be. Shit, that even _sounded_ like the old US Army slogan. He was in the evil army now.

The kids, even Anthony, hadn't so much as blinked when he ordered the Impala be moved somewhere safe rather than left on the street, visible to everyone but Dean. They had just done it. The parking garage where Eric Sullivan was killed was their choice, and he didn't argue on the off chance either of the employees he and Dean had met would be on staff. Sally was, but she hadn't shown any recognition when she saw Sam and the clones drop off the car and pick up Andy's van. She hadn't noticed him when he was there before, too enthralled with Dean's charm. The point was how quickly the kids had done what he wanted. Eventually they'd look to him to give orders of greater consequence.

"Eventually we will, yes. Soon, I hope," Anthony said, suddenly standing right next to him.

Sam jumped a little. He thought he covered it well but the kid grinned at him toothily.

"Just wait until you embrace the powers you have inside you, Sam. It's amazing."

That was precisely why he needed to avoid doing it.

"Oh, come _on_."

Anthony read his mind; he had to have. Sam stiffened, not liking that idea very much. The kid waved another boy over, the same boy who Sam thought had nodded to him back in the warehouse.

"Sam still doesn't get it. Tell him, Ike."

"My father used to beat me," Ike said softly.

Sam instantly pictured Max Miller's tortured face and knew where the tale was going.

"And my mom and sister, too. I used to always wonder why, and then something cool happened and I realized it didn't really matter why. I could stop him."

Sam winced, conflicted again. He couldn't blame a child for wanting to stop the bad things that were happening to him and his family. His whole life was based on that tenet, after all, except the bad things that happened to him and Dean and Dad were caused by … bad things, things that couldn't be put in jail or dealt with in any other way but killing. Ike's father was just a person, a rotten human being that probably, on some level, did deserve to die.

Anthony looked at Sam with appreciation bordering on pride.

"One afternoon we were driving home from one of my soccer matches. My team had lost and my dad was rubbing in my face how his big, fat son was such a bummer for him." Ike looked genuinely sad, just for an instant, and then his eyes were cold and hard again.

Sam wondered randomly if Ike had had a soft smile, back when he was normal. He thought Ike had probably been a good kid pushed by unhappy circumstances.

"I didn't even care that I was in the car, too. I couldn't take it anymore, and it just happened. There was a big truck. I didn't think too much about it. I don't think I tried to do it, really, but I made my dad … not see the truck, and then he couldn't ever hurt anyone again."

Sam was reminded yet again how damned lucky he was. His childhood had been far from perfect, and he still held major resentment at the way both Dad and Dean had kept the truth hidden from him, but Sam understood now more than ever why they had. They loved him. They wanted to protect him. Dad because he had also probably suspected very early on that Mom's death was really about Sam, and Dean because Dean was Dean. Dean. He didn't know how his brother would do it, but he'd figure out where Sam was. God, he missed his brother, yet would force Dean to stay in Lawrence if he could.

"You get it, Sam? That's the kind of power we all have now. We can do such great things. The world can be ours."

Evil things did not equal great things. World domination fantasies were something usually reserved for egomaniacal tyrants. One of these kids had to have some connection, a fond memory, anything, of family. Like he did. Anthony narrowed his eyes at him.

"What about your mom and sister?" Sam said to Ike, ignoring Anthony.

"They're safe now. Anyway, they really don't matter," Ike said with a shrug. "Yellow-Eyes said they'd be protected."

"His name was Azazel, by the way. He's _dead_, and every demon out there has been gunning for me every chance they get since then. They'll come after you. Your families aren't safe, if they ever really were. And none of you are immortal. You're not safe either."

"I don't think the demons know we exist, Sam," Anthony said, an unconcerned air in his tone. "Yellow-Eyes … sorry, _Azazel_ had a master plan. He told us everyone knew about your generation and how you'd one day be a great leader, but not many knew about us. We're your secret weapon, your army. He expected some of the demons to not like a human in charge. That makes sense, right? Twenty people like us would be harder to beat if some of them rebelled. Well, seventeen now, without the three who couldn't hack it."

He looked around the large room. All the little children stared back at him, unblinking. The rumpled, unwashed looks they all embodied were disparate and jarring in the homey atmosphere of the house they were squatting in. The building looked rundown and derelict from the outside but was actually furnished well, and comfortably. A projection. It hadn't been what he thought. He'd expected training grounds, a place far from civilization, blood and death and squalor. Evil always lurked in the shadows, but only an invisible veil hid these kids from normal, mainstream life. He had to admit he found it a little fascinating. And scary.

"I'm surprised they haven't found you yet. You're not very subtle," Sam said.

"Oh, there are no demons in Detroit, Sam," Anthony said. "No one's on the lookout for us."

"No demons," all the kids echoed eerily.

"There are some places where humans have already started down the right path," a girl's voice piped up.

Sam looked toward the sound of her voice. She was taller than most of the boys, caramel skin and eyes like iced honey, cold and hard, glittering with something that made him very uncertain. The name _Veda_ popped into his head, and _basement, basement, basement_. She raised her eyebrow at him. He blinked a couple of times, resisted the urge to shake his head, like he could somehow get her out of his mind.

"There's no need for demons to go where people are taking care of everything for them. Better to focus on turning others."

Sam's immediate thought was how that wasn't the best course of action. If he were to attack humanity in an attempt at conquest, he'd start with the cities, regions and countries already on a moral decline. That was pretty much the whole of the United States as far as religious fundamentalists were concerned, but careful consideration of demographics and statistics would point to key cities, or even neighborhoods within those cities. Power could be built up quietly and slowly, without drawing any unwanted attention. No one would understand how the balance had shifted from good to evil, just that it had done so as if overnight. There would be no way to stop it once or _if_ anyone finally caught on. Demons had no time for subtlety. Their methods were gratuitously barbaric. Bloodshed wasn't necessary for domination, could even hinder it; that was something demonkind could definitely learn.

Anthony chuckled, a low throaty laugh that was out of place in someone so young.

Sam shook his head. He felt like he was coming out of a fog. Thick, malignant ideas swirled at him. He couldn't think anything else. Straightening his shoulders, he shook his head again, looking over at the kids standing around him. Anthony looked pleased. Shit, where had those thoughts come from? Sam felt nauseous and freezing and hot and wrong. He swallowed a couple of times, cleared his throat.

What Sam did next was second nature - he swept the room looking for Dean, who couldn't possibly be there. As much as he wanted Dean nowhere near this, he also thought he really needed his big brother at the moment. His cell phone was heavy in his pocket, ready access to hear Dean's voice. He doubted he'd have the chance to use it anytime soon, not surrounded all the time, but his fingers itched to grab it anyway.

"So you've been here this whole time?" he said at last, aware of the intrusive stares aimed at him. "Practicing."

"Some of us have been here longer than others. I got here first, with Emily and Mason and Olivia." Anthony pointed out the three kids.

Sam didn't pay much attention, his mind still on other things. Besides, having names to put to faces was too humanizing for him. He didn't need additional reminders of how these were just people, just kids. He couldn't let that stop him from doing what he eventually had to do.

"The rest came in groups of three or four."

"Sounds familiar," Sam muttered.

It explained how Anthony had assumed the role of interim leader. The kid had a strong personality. He wondered just what methods had been employed to make all of these kids into killing machines, how far along any of them might have gotten before landing there. Clearly Ike had used his power before, for reasons Sam still couldn't completely fault. The rest probably had as well, voluntarily or, like him, involuntarily. It didn't matter that much. There was no telling how many kids had cracked under the pressure long before the rest had been abducted and placed in the middle of a strange city. He didn't understand how none of them had simply tried to go home the second they were taken. Then again, he thought of Lily and how well a departure from Cold Oak had worked for her. Something about the place or how the kids were transported there could have prohibited them from leaving. A cold hand touched his forearm. He pulled away.

"Familiar except he didn't bring us here to kill each other off," Anthony said.

"Unless someone didn't fit into the hive mentality you've got going on here. Then apparently anyone was fair game." Sam glanced at the faces staring back at him, felt their anger, disappointment and … sadness? He cocked his head, tried to figure out what that meant, and from which of them it came. "What about me, huh? What if I never accept the role as your fearless leader? Gonna kill me, too? Might as well get it over with."

"We're not going to kill you," Anthony said. "We have more faith in you than you seem to have in yourself, Sam."

"Then what? Because I'm sure I've already made it clear I'm not going to lead a war against humanity."

"Maybe it would help if you stopped thinking of it as a war. Demons aren't fighting anyone, and neither will we. We're just looking out for our own well-being."

Sam might have laughed if it wasn't all so fucked up.

Anthony sighed and beckoned for Sam to follow him, as he left the room.

Sam didn't want to, but he didn't think he had much choice. He wanted to understand why this group of adolescents had banded together so strongly it was like they were one entity. The word _persuasion_ popped into his head. He shot Veda a look, but couldn't see her face. She was already following Anthony. Sam trailed after them, scoping the house in closer detail than he had when they'd first arrived, searching for anything that might be useful to know later. A way out, something. None of the windows were locked, the front door didn't seem that secure. There was no reason any one of these kids, or he, couldn't walk right out. Sam thought of the dead woman back in Lawrence, and reconsidered. Whatever compelled them to remain, it wasn't physical. Sam thought maybe it was as strong as iron bars on windows, though. Four of the other kids trailed behind him, reminding him of a miniature entourage of bodyguards. They were an evil secret service.

"We have something to show you. I'm sure we can convince you to work with us."

They stood before a door, just off of the kitchen. Sam watched it open as if on its own. If they wanted to surprise or impress him into submission, they'd have to do a lot more than parlor tricks. Anthony pointed into the darkness. Sam stepped toward the doorway, seeing narrow stairs descending into inky blackness. A cool draught of musty air assailed him. Basement, he thought, and again furtively tried to catch Veda's eye. She looked at him, then looked away quickly. He had a notion that whatever was down there, he wasn't going to like it.

*

"I don't know what to do, Bobby," Dean said. It was like déjà vu all over again, only he knew why Sam was gone. Knowing didn't help. He looked up. His gaze skittered across the cluttered room, landing on his old friend briefly before settling on his hands clasped before him on the table. "I think I might have lost him for good this time."

It sucked to admit it out loud. The words were open acknowledgement that he'd given everything, his life, to keep his brother safe, but that wasn't enough. He'd failed anyway and had run himself out of options to fix it. He'd spent too long searching New Orleans. Sometimes logic simply wasn't enough. It was true that he'd found crime in the city. New Orleans was full of misery and larceny but it was also filled with hope and good will, and all of it blended together into a powerful mix. What he didn't find were demons or special children bent on fulfilling a demonic prophecy. The best guess he had under the circumstances had been wrong. He'd known it almost immediately, not for skill but for something he couldn't explain even to himself. Just intuition. He couldn't _feel_ his brother in New Orleans, which sounded stupid, but for nearly his whole life he'd had such a tight line on Sam the loss of it was physical.

"I wish you'd have…." Bobby started, then paused and shook his head.

Dean blinked at his old friend, and knew Bobby was about to tell him he should have come to him sooner. He knew it was true and he regretted not doing it more than he could say.

A frown played across Bobby's grizzled features. "Never mind. It doesn't matter now. You're here. How long ago did all of this happen?"

Dean closed his eyes for a second. He didn't know how to measure time. From the moment Sam walked out of the warehouse in Lawrence to Dean sitting at Bobby's kitchen table with greasy hair and stubble on his chin, time had been only one thing to him – the enemy. He hadn't marked it in minutes, hours or even days, only pushed forward as if he could beat it somehow. How could he answer Bobby with that and not sound like a moron? He sighed and cracked open his eyes again, catching the worry on Bobby's face before it became muted by his need to know.

"What day is it now?"

Bobby looked at him funny, like Dean would actually make a joke when Sam's life was on the line. Screw the war and screw the yellow-eyed demon's scary children (Sam wasn't one, he _wasn't_). This was about Sam to Dean, and the rest of the issues were secondary at best. It probably made him a lousy human being to think that way. He didn't really care.

"It's Wednesday," said Bobby.

"Then it's been…." Dean counted backwards. "Well, Sam's first vision came on Saturday. That means Sam left with them on Monday night."

"Boy, how in the hell did you get from Lawrence to New Orleans to _here_ in under forty-eight hours?"

"I honestly have no clue," Dean said, somewhat hysterically. He ran a hand through his hair. "I drank coffee. I went nuts. I drove, and then I drove and drove some more. The point is I'm here. Please tell me you found something, Bobby."

All Dean wanted at that very moment was for someone to tell him everything would be okay, even if it was a bald-faced lie. He could count on Bobby; Bobby never let him down. He saw it in his friend's eyes, nearly the same thing he felt – concern burgeoning on dread, because Bobby knew the same thing he knew about Sam. His friend had lied once, when Dean had outright asked Bobby if he thought something was wrong with Sam. He'd known it was a lie then, just like he'd know now if Bobby lied to him. For a con man, Bobby was terrible at lying to people he cared about.

"Not any more than you came up with. Wherever these kids are, they're good at flying under the radar. They have an advantage. Azazel was a cunning sonuvabitch, but he couldn't stop the telltale signs. These kids are humans. They're leaving no traces I can track through usual methods," Bobby said unhappily. He got up and grabbed the coffee pot, offering Dean some.

Dean nodded briefly, though he'd been well beyond caffeine as an aid for alertness for a long time. He watched the steam rise from his freshly poured cup.

"What's the plan with the kids?" Bobby sat down again. "I still don't know if I understand the full story."

That was probably because Dean didn't understand the full story himself. He'd told what he knew, which he'd discovered in retelling to be sketchy and incomplete. The main points could be boiled down to psycho kids wanting to turn Sam into their leader in some crusade of Azazel's. Details had to come from Sam. Dean swallowed once, throat dry. They might never understand the full range of the plan.

"I don't really know either," he admitted. "They had me held to a chair and were playing pincushion with me the whole time. Even without those distractions, they weren't exactly specific. You know, the same kind of bullshit any demon will spout, vague threats and hints, only they were doing it like annoying teens. All I really know is they expect Sam to lead them."

"In what? The war? It's not really a coordinated effort at this point, just individual skirmishes between hunter and demon."

Dean shrugged. He didn't know what else to do. He certainly didn't want to think Sam might be powerful or _evil_ enough to whip a bunch of chaotic supernatural miscreants into some sort of working order, no matter what the master plan turned out to be. If he couldn't let himself think it, he sure wasn't going to say it. He read bleak uncertainty in Bobby's eyes, could see his friend had similar thoughts.

He considered what would happen if Sam's overwhelming tendency for good somehow flipped to the opposite end of the spectrum, and his focus became bad with a capital B. He'd witnessed Sam at his finest, barely making an effort to get into people's good graces. A soft voice and earnest eyes and people were like butter. The idea of Sam mutating that ability into something twisted and wrong was so damned terrifying because, lately, Dean had thought it was so damned possible.

"I don't know, Bobby." Dean wanted to go to sleep and wake up to find this all a bad dream. He slumped his shoulders. "That's why I don't know what to do next. They could be anywhere, doing anything."

"Okay, I'll go over this stuff again while you get some rest," Bobby said.

Dean sat up straighter, ready to object.

"Dean, you look like hell. I haven't seen you look this bad since Sa … well, for a while. I have a feeling we're both going to have to be sharp for what's coming."

Dean nodded, but didn't move. As much as he wanted to go to sleep and wake up to find this was a dream, he was more afraid to go to sleep and wake up to find it _wasn't_. He was stuck.

"I'll put out feelers to hunters I trust. Maybe some of them have noticed something that I can use."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Dean said.

He thought about Gordon Walker, and any hunters that might have been influenced by him. Some of them surely burned with the roadhouse, but not all. Dean wasn't quick to give trust to anyone, but he didn't like the risk of the information that Sam was out there, in the company of the wrong side if not _on_ the wrong side, leaked to someone who'd use it to hunt his brother down like he was a monster.

"The more eyes we have on this thing, the more likely we'll spot something." To Bobby's credit, he didn't look comfortable with the idea himself. "I've already looked over my information five times. I don't think I'd find anything if I looked for a sixth. No one else has to know why we're looking for what we're looking for, or even that we're dealing with more special kids. They won't until after we find Sam and get him out of there, if at all. I don't like the idea of turning people on other people, least of all that brother of yours. Sam'll be fine. We'll have him out of there before there's any real danger, Dean."

Bobby gave him a half smile, but his eyes shifted down and to the left, back to him and then down and left again.

There it was, the lie Dean had been looking for. Damn if Bobby's assurances didn't make him feel just a tiny bit better anyway. Dean stood and stretched, his spine popping several times. Bobby was right about needing to be sharp, he'd told himself that many times already. He just couldn't. He leaned over the table and pulled the various maps and books toward him. He'd only looked at them once. His eyes weren't exactly fresh, but it couldn't hurt. Bobby grumbled something at him. He didn't pay any attention, absorbed in the information lying on the flat surface.

The map was littered with flags highlighting demonic activity, which was to be expected. Virtually every major population was a mess of supernatural motion. There didn't seem to be a pattern. Some cities had a higher grade of incidents, while others had a spattering of low-level demons. Subtlety was not a word demons understood, even after all these months of being tracked and hunted. None of the demon trails could be mistaken for anything but what they were, too obvious and reckless to be from these kids who managed to go undetected not only by hunters, but by Azazel's own minions for months.

"I see what you're saying," Dean said. He blinked slowly, trying to give his eyes time to regain some moisture. When he opened them again, he caught Bobby staring at him with concerned pity. He stood up and walked around to the other side of the table. He thought maybe a different angle would help. "Your tracking system is as good as ever, but there's so much out there right now. How are we supposed to see the forest for the…."

Dean stopped and stared at the maps again. He blinked, and saw something in a different way than he had moments ago. They were looking for dark spots when maybe what they should be looking for was the absence of them. New Orleans hadn't been touched by demons and if his faith in Bobby was warranted, which it was, then he could clearly see pockets of empty spaces on a map covered with markers. It wasn't much, maybe nothing at all, but for the first time since setting foot in Bobby's house he felt something other than sick failure.

"Bobby, look at this."

"What?"

"Here," Dean said and pointed, at first to one clean spot, then another, and another. "And here, and here, and here."

"Those spots are clean."

"Yeah, but why? Demons should flock to Vegas. It's Sin City after all. Washington D.C., Detroit, Los Angeles, New Orleans … they're all places that have a rep for being bad, founded or unfounded."

"Fargo's on there."

"Maybe it's just too damned cold up there. I don't know. Most of these should be havens for demons but there's shit-all evidence there are any."

"So," Bobby said, "Why are these places being ignored?"

"I don't think it matters. There's probably logic there somewhere. But think about it – demons we've run into have enjoyed telling Sam he's fair game now. Wouldn't they feel the same about sixteen mini-Sams?"

"Making any one of these cities a perfect place for someone on a demonic hit list to hide out."

"Exactly," Dean said. Adrenaline made his skin prickle slightly. "For all we know, Azazel told the demons not to bother with certain places because he put the kids there. No one expected me to waste his ass so it's mostly chaos out there, but even though he's not around they could still have that message in the back of their minds."

"It's worth considering. We're going to need help checking all of these places."

Dean pursed his lips. He paced in front of the table a few times. He was still reluctant to let Bobby make those phone calls. If he was right, the last thing he wanted was to be double-crossed and have Sam snatched away from him by some lunatic hunter. No, actually, the last thing he wanted was to find those lunatic hunters were right about Sam. They couldn't be. His uneasy feeling had to be baseless.

"You're sure these guys are okay?"

"I wouldn't mess with…" Bobby said, rubbed at his temples a little. "Ah. I wouldn't mess with Sam's … ah, shit, what the hell?"

"Bobby, what's wrong?"

"Headache. Bad headache." Bobby collapsed onto a chair, elbows slammed down against the table with dual cracks, hands still at his temples.

Dean stepped close and put a hand on Bobby's shoulder, feeling faint tremors running through the older man. Bobby groaned a little and squeezed his eyes shut. He nodded once, as if answering a question only he could hear. The attack didn't last long, but it left Bobby shaky and pale. Dean had some idea of what had just happened. He had to be sure.

"Bobby, what was that?" Dean said after a second.

"Whoa, what that was, was intense." Bobby dropped his hands and looked up at Dean. "I think someone just force fed me a vision or something."

"Of what?" The sharp adrenaline feeling on Dean's skin was now almost painful. He hadn't expected anyone to reach out and touch someone, but if he had he never would have guessed Bobby would be the one touched. "What did you see?"

"Lions. Tigers."

Dean went to the cupboard, got a glass and filled it with water. He slid it to Bobby, who was looking peaked. He commiserated, but he really needed Bobby to explain in greater detail. Lions and tigers weren't exactly helpful.

"Is that all?"

"No, I heard a voice."

That was new. Sam? Dean hoped so and hoped not.

Bobby shook his head, as if somehow answering Dean's unasked question. "It was a girl. She said to send demons."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah," Bobby said. He lifted the glass of water and drank the whole thing in a few gulps. He cleared his throat once. "She, ah, also said not to tell you, that you shouldn't go."

_That_ was Sam talking, even if it wasn't Sam actually talking. Dean pursed his lips. If he could figure out where to go, he wasn't about to stay at Bobby's and just send demons right to his brother.

"Right, and yet you are," Dean said.

"Oops." Bobby shrugged.

"Lions and tigers and demons. That's not much to go on."

"I wouldn't say that. Detroit just happens to be a city not overrun with demon activity. Detroit's football team is the…?"

"Lions," Dean said. "And their baseball team is the Tigers."

Soon, Dean would have to consider why Sam or any of those psycho kids would call demons upon themselves. Now, though, he allowed relief to wash over him. Not only was Sam out there, but he was also still Sam enough to send out an SOS. Dean could fix everything he'd messed up. He had another chance to keep his brother safe. It was a chance he couldn't squander.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Whoo, I broke ten reviews! ;)_

**All the Little Children  
Chapter Six**

Sometimes it was better to be wrong than right. Unfortunately, Sam hadn't been wrong about not liking what was in the basement.

The sub-level of the home for demented kids with abilities was as comfortably furnished as the rest of the house, which made its function as a torture chamber all the worse. The walls were painted a light shade of green, as if to manufacture relaxation. Sam didn't think there was one person down there that was close to calm, though some of them appeared so more than others. He looked away from the luckless man sitting on the far side of the main room in a plush armchair, screaming his lungs out. By the sound of it, that might not actually be a figure of speech. Sam clenched his jaw tightly, finding a smudge on the arm of his own plush chair to focus on.

He didn't know how long he and the man had been trapped down there, one of them tortured in the traditional method and one by being forced to watch another human's pain like it was a spectator sport. The man looked like a transient, though that wasn't verifiable; he could have just been down there for weeks, unwashed, beaten, mostly starved. There were no clocks on the walls. Sam could only assume the meals they brought him, and only him, coincided with actual times of the day. It could have been hours or it could have been days.

It seemed like forever.

The small basement windows were covered, the only light available artificial, and controlled. The only way out was the same way he'd come in, and it was guarded by at least three of the kids at all times. Physically, Sam would have no problem with those odds, but it wasn't a simple physical issue.

"It took Wilson about two months to get that down," Anthony said. "He was kind of ashamed at how slowly he picked things up, but you can't deny the end result is pretty awesome. Isn't it cool?"

"Not really," Sam said. Suspecting Wilson was gloating at Anthony's praise, Sam didn't take the bait. Something he hadn't quite defined yet made Wilson one of the more menacing of the kids. Maybe it was his deceptive baby face, maybe the chip in his front tooth. Sam stared at Anthony instead. "No."

"Oh, Sam." Anthony shook his head. "You have no appreciation for true skill."

He thought at first they only wanted to demonstrate what they could do, as if the more Sam saw the more likely he'd be to join them. They weren't dumb, though, and ascertained quickly that wasn't going to happen. It would be a cold day in hell if he ever considered the tortures they inflicted on that poor man as skills. The man moaned, clearly weakening fast now. Sam looked back down at the stained chair, because he had to maintain some control in an otherwise uncontrollable environment.

Once Anthony and the others realized he wasn't going to magically embrace his apparently dormant powers, the goal shifted into one of provocation. They egged him on, daring him to stop them. He couldn't. Wanted to, but wouldn't because it scared him spitless to think what else would happen if he let go. Every time he looked at the victim, the will to resist weakened. So he didn't look.

"That's not true." He narrowed his eyes and stared at Anthony. "I appreciate a lot of skills. Funny, none of them involves murder."

"Please," the guy said, voice almost inaudible. "Why won't you help me?"

Sam winced, switching his attention from the arm of his chair to look further away from the man. His gaze landed on a thick metal door. The kids had managed to convert one of the sub-level rooms into a walk-in freezer, storage for the people they'd _practiced on_ to death. Anthony had been delighted in giving him a tour of it first thing after he'd been led into the basement, like Sam should be impressed both by the ingenuity of it and the contents. The shivers that ran down his spine then, and again now, had nothing to do with the coldness inside what was essentially a meat locker.

"Tell him why you won't help him, Sam."

Sam clenched his jaw tightly, and felt his left eye twitch.

"Go on." Anthony gave a long-suffering sigh. "Tell him why you just sit there and let Wilson do _that_ to him."

He didn't want to think about _that _indescribable thing, or any of the other indescribable things they'd done to the man. Some of the things these kids could do were plain evil. They had to be stopped. He still hadn't figured out how to make that happen yet. He was honestly afraid to think about it. Anthony hadn't come right out and said it, but Sam knew the kid could read minds; he had to concentrate to keep out invasive nudges at all times, and it left him too exhausted to devise any means out of the corner which kept moving tighter and tighter in on him. That was probably part of the game, to wear him down on as many levels as possible. Inside, outside, and upside down. The kids had every angle covered as far as he could tell. Then again, he'd given up everything but the perspective they wanted him to see.

"I think maybe he'd rather know why Wilson is doing that to him in the first place," Sam said, though he knew it couldn't matter to the guy anymore. "What you're doing? You know it's not going to work."

"You've said that before. I'm sure it's true. Maybe you believe the good of the many outweighs the good of the one or the few, or whatever that expression is. This guy would probably disagree at the moment," Anthony said. "Wilson, give it a rest now."

The man gasped and mewled, possibly out of relief that _that_ wasn't being done to him anymore, but Sam couldn't really tell if Wilson had stopped the torture. The distress was still palpable without seeing it, though the tension coming from across the room wasn't as intense as it'd been. Sam saw the man out of the corner of his eye, and from his awkward viewpoint saw no accusation in his expression. Either he was too out of it from the abuse to blame Sam, or he'd never really blamed Sam at all. One of the kids could have put the pleading words in his mouth the same way they'd done back in Lawrence. It was all trickery and manipulation. He was afraid it was working.

Wilson crossed the room, walking right in front of Sam. He glared like a child who'd had a toy taken away. The analogy probably wasn't too far off. The boy's chocolate colored eyes were pure hatred; if looks could kill … but then Wilson's probably could do just that, eventually. Still, Sam thought, no one would follow him if they hated him. If he could get them all to… No, if they didn't have him as their ringleader, whether they let him live or killed him outright, they'd still be out there doing evil. They'd be even more dangerous unsupervised. What he needed to do was start tricking them back, and make them believe he was on their side. Monitor them, keep them in check.

Sam wasn't sure he could continue to perch on the fence, and balance what he knew was right with…darker impulses. The tortured man's breathing was audible and strained, rattling in his throat. Part of Sam thought he'd be better off dead now. He straightened up, shaking that thought out of his head. His position felt precarious. He was again reminded of just how important Dean was in his life. Dean kept him balanced without doing anything but being there.

"Johanna, show Sam what you can do." Anthony beckoned to a girl at the doorway. She came. Wilson took her place, sullen expression stuck on his face. "You'd better hurry, though. That guy's almost had it."

"I don't need much time," the girl said. "But that doesn't mean I wouldn't _like_ more sometimes, Anthony."

"Yeah, yeah."

Instead of standing in front of her victim, though, Johanna came and stood in front of Sam. She had a spattering of freckles on her nose. Her hair was curled slightly, a small barrette holding one side of her bangs back off her face. The modification of the cult-of-Sam look was subtle and unexpected. Sam had hoped there were still inclinations of self in some of these kids. He noticed Johanna's barrette matched the long sleeved, striped shirt that looked as though it had come straight out of his duffel bag, only miniaturized. If Dean were there right now, he'd probably comment about how Sam should ask her for styling tips, injecting humor into the crappy situation, the way he always did. He had to stop thinking about his brother. It just made him feel worse.

Johanna grabbed his right wrist with one hand and laced her fingers through his hair with the other. Instinct made him try to pull away. Before he could wrest from her grip, his vision went suddenly white. The room seemed to shift to the left, then back to the right. His brain felt on fire, softening in his skull. He blinked back tears and the outcry that formed on his lips. The sensation of liquefaction lasted a second, and then he saw Dean. His brother was in the Impala, driving on a familiar urban street. Sam struggled to place it for a moment. Dean looked terrible, worried and angry. Sam recognized the street a moment before his vision went white again.

The scene changed. The torture victim was suspended midair above his stained chair, convulsing, except no. It wasn't the same person, but Sam knew who it was without knowing who it was. Redness splattered on the green walls. Pain and more whiteness, then blood and screaming and Dean unmoving on the floor at Sam's feet. Too much blood. Dean dead. Sightless eyes. Others he didn't know, with entirely black eyes. Not people. Echoing laughter bounced off the green walls. Sam saw himself, looking terrible and worried and scarily angry. There was blood on him, too. His own, running from his nose and eyes, more soaking the front of his shirt. Smoke and heat and screams and fire. Blood all over his hands, thick, warm. Rage in his eyes. Hate.

Sam gasped. The basement, the here and now of it, refocused. His lungs burned as if the smoke had been real. He lay on his back, on the floor. Young faces looked down at him, none of them out of concern. From his position, their heads were distorted, foreheads and eyes abnormally large. It took him a moment to catch his breath, regain coherency. Some of it, anyway. Something at the back of his throat choked him. He coughed, turned his head and spit out onto the floor. Bloody saliva trailed from the corner of his mouth. He didn't care. His arms wouldn't move.

"Johanna can make people see their own future. I've heard it's kind of painful," Anthony said.

He shifted his head so he was directly above Sam. The kid's chin looked huge. His mouth was a set of enormous teeth, smiling and smiling. Sam's eyes started to cross.

"Did you like what you saw?"

"What do you think?" Sam croaked out.

"Probably not, I guess. Johanna?"

"I couldn't see, Anthony," Johanna said, her voice shaky. Sam sat up slowly. The world tilted again, then he saw Johanna staring at him with awe and maybe something like love in her expression. He felt like vomiting. "He's … different from regular people."

"Duh."

Sam reached for the chair, pulled himself up and onto it. None of the kids helped, they just kept looking at him. He glanced around the room. There was no fresh blood on the walls. Dean, he thought. Dean could not come there, not ever. If that was the future he just saw, then he had to stop it, whether it happened in two days or eight months. Sam would _not_ bear witness to his brother's death. He hadn't seen more than a second, hadn't seen how Dean died, just the blood and the empty eyes. The cold hardness settling in Sam's gut seemed to expand until the blood in his veins felt icy.

"Aw, would you look at that? Wilson, you have a real control problem," Anthony said out of the blue. "That guy was supposed to last another couple of days."

Sam turned and looked, he couldn't help it. The man was obviously dead, his head was leaning back, his mouth agape, blood covered him. Sam's nostrils flared as he tried to hold back a reaction. He had to look away again. He saw Veda at the doorway, standing on the bottom step. _Take him,_ she said in Sam's head, and _freezer, safe, freezer._ Sam blinked a couple of times, confused.

"I think Sam should be the one to put him in storage," Veda said, tone unyielding. She tilted her head slightly. "Doing something hands-on will help him accept the way things should be. I'll help him."

"Veda, you always have such good ideas." Anthony leaned into Sam's personal space, studying him for a moment. "You feel up to it, Sam?"

"It's not like I have a choice here." Sam got to his feet, towering over the kids who had so much control over him, tangible and intangible. His size versus theirs was the only thing in his favor. It didn't make him feel any better. It wasn't a real advantage because he couldn't use it. "I hope there's room in there."

Veda went straight for the guy's feet, and waited for him to join her. Sam did most of the lifting, grabbing the guy under the arms. The man's clothing hung off of him, but the body was heavier than it looked like it should be. Part of that, Sam realized, might be from a lingering weakness after his little session with Johanna. From his new vantage point, he couldn't avoid looking at the damages inflicted upon the guy. It was awful, the physically visible injuries as well as whatever had happened to the man internally – there was blood crusted at his ears, nose and eyes and just everywhere.

He told himself not to think about it, aware Anthony was at the corner of his mind, waiting, watching for Sam to break even just a little. The only power he used was to keep the kid out of his head, determined not to go beyond that. He was afraid even that was too much. Exerting unnatural power to protect against unnatural power was a slippery slope, a path of resistance that would actually lead to blood on his hands, and fury in his eyes.

"Put him as far in the back as you can get him," Anthony said, as he pulled the freezer door open for them. "We've got a cataloguing system I don't want messed up."

Sam had to duck to clear the doorway, and almost lost his grip on the body. If Veda felt anything like a normal kid would at hauling a dead person into permanent cold storage, she didn't show it or send him any mental messages. They worked quietly, distastefully on his part. He could not let this continue, but again he reminded himself he _couldn't_ stop them alone. His mind raced back to the future Johanna had shown him. People with black eyes. There were no demons in Detroit. He had an idea. It was a bad one, but a good one. It was the only one.

"I know what to do, Anthony," Veda said. "Don't worry."

Anthony snorted something under his breath, and moved away from the freezer door. It slid shut with a soft click. Veda pointed toward the back of the expansive locker, where there were large sheets of opaque plastic.

Sam grimaced. These kids were thorough, had probably learned as much from TV as from Azazel. His feet crunched on the plastic wrap. It crinkled more when they set the guy down on the far left. They rolled the body up, moving him next to the alarmingly big pile of corpses. He leaned over, head swimming, throat tight.

"We don't all want this," Veda whispered, suddenly close to him, her breath warm against his ear. She shivered. "Anthony and most of the others, they won't let us do anything else."

"Can't he hear your thoughts?"

"We don't let him in, like you don't, but he's getting stronger. We all are."

Sam stood and looked at her. Her honey eyes glittered. Her distress seemed genuine. They were close enough he felt her shivering. Part of him wanted to help her, but part of him remained suspicious.

"You feel it," she said. "He's so strong."

Sam nodded, but said, "I can't do anything."

"You _can_," she said. "I think you could stop all of us."

It was there. Sam could feel it under the surface all the time, now. He knew he could do more than block Anthony's attempts to read him, so much more. He knew the longer he stayed trapped with them, the more likely it would be he'd lose the battle.

"And that's why I can't," he said. "I don't know what else will happen if I do."

Veda's eyes went soft with empathy deeper than her years should have allowed. Everything about these kids was wrong. They'd never have normal lives, not even the ones who didn't want evil in it. Neither would he. Sam swallowed.

"I get that. I do, but…" she said. Her nostrils flared, gooseflesh broke out on her cheeks. "Anthony's trying to get in."

Sam nodded again, closed his eyes and willed the curious tendrils out and away. It worked, and it felt good. He felt power in the action. He liked it and loathed himself for it.

"I have an idea," he said quietly. "You can put thoughts into people's heads, right?"

Veda nodded.

"I need you to send someone a message."

"Your brother?"

"No." Definitely not. Sam pursed his lips. It couldn't be Dean. Dean could never set foot in this house. Anthony's probing continued. Sam shoved back, harder this time. There was a thump on the freezer door. He pulled at the charm Bobby had given him to prevent demon possession, and gave it to Veda. "The person who gave me this."

"Okay." She pressed the charm back into his hand.

"Tell him where we are, but tell him not to tell Dean. Tell him to send demons here."

"Sam?" Veda whispered. "They'll kill us."

Sam didn't know if Veda meant the demons or the kids outside. Both, maybe. Veda's nostrils flared. Sam felt it, too. Anthony, and something else. More thumps on the freezer door. It scraped open. He clenched his jaw and touched Veda on the shoulder, for encouragement if not protection. He pushed her behind him and faced the open door, and the shadowed figures there.

"I'm disappointed in you, Veda," Anthony said. "Who are you talking to?"

Veda whimpered, and fell to her knees.

Sam moved to help her up. He barely started reaching when he found himself flying through the air. He hit the metal wall of the meat locker, mostly with his head. He heard Veda scream, as if from a great distance.

*

Detroit was a big city. It was too big. Dean was so close to his brother now he could almost feel it, but he was also too far away. The task was daunting even with Bobby's help, and he feared they couldn't take the time to search on their own. He didn't want to put information on the hunter or demon hotlines until he had Sam back and safe and still _Sam_. He wasn't sure they could avoid it for very long, though.

"Are you sure there wasn't anything else?" he said. "Something more useful?"

"Dean, we've gone over this a hundred times already," Bobby said sharply, showing his fatigue.

The drive from South Dakota to Detroit hadn't been easy on either of them. Dean knew he was going on fumes at this point, Bobby faring a bit better, but not much. He was as sure as the sun rising every day that neither of them would quit, no matter how piss poor they felt.

"The images were more like flashes, and they were pretty disjointed. Either the girl who sent them was rushed or not that great at it. The words were much clearer, but there was something in her voice.…"

"Sam would have coached her to get us more information." Dean scratched at his cheek, beyond needing a shower and a shave. "Something besides their location."

"I hate to say it, but maybe he didn't have the chance. The girl sounded kind of panic-stricken. If Sam was even there with her, we don't know what his situation was or is."

"Yeah, I'm aware of that, _Bobby_."

He didn't need the reminder of how Sam might be in the biggest trouble of his life. He'd hoped for something more from Sam, communication of any kind. It wasn't fair to take out his disappointment about that on his friend. Dean scowled and looked out the window at the passing buildings. He would not get this close again and fail, again. The haystack was smaller than it had been, and he was grateful for that. He'd be more grateful if they had the first idea where to look within that haystack. There was a reason these kids had gone undetected for so long, after all. He doubted that he and Bobby would just fall upon them. This wasn't a ghost town. The streets were full of people. There were too many places to look.

"We'll figure it out," Bobby said. He scrunched down, peering at street signs as they drove through intersections. "I need to find a goddamned library or something."

"It's up a few blocks."

He'd spent more time researching in the past week than he had in the entire year prior to that, maybe two years. As always, Dean understood the value of it, but now more than ever he wanted to take action. He wasn't sure what they'd be looking for at a library anyway. What they needed was a giant neon symbol pointing them right to Sam, something concrete. Hell, he thought pounding on every door in Detroit might be more effective than research. In an effort to allay pent up frustrations, he jostled his leg and drummed his fingers on his thigh. He felt stupid, but he looked for signs on the buildings they drove by. He didn't expect a flashing **Sam's Right Here** notice or a huge arrow. Not sincerely.

"Maybe you should try his cell again."

That would be the sign they needed all right. So far every time Dean called to raise Sam, hoping all the while that it wouldn't piss off the superkids, his brother's phone had been off. There wasn't enough reason to think that had changed, but he withdrew his cell from his pocket and scrolled down to Sam's number. He hit send, but the only answer he got was automated. He shoved the phone back into his pocket.

"So much for that," he said. "They probably made him get rid of it."

"Makes sense. A cell phone is traceable, and they're too smart for that."

Bobby steered the car into a parking lot adjacent to Detroit's main library building, and they both started getting out of the car. Dean paused. He grabbed Bobby's arm, catching his eye. He knew time would be better spent if they split up.

"Yeah," Bobby said, as if Dean had spoken aloud. "I was thinking the same thing. I saw the police station a few blocks back. I'll poke around there to see if I can sweet talk some information out of the cops. Someone had to have seen something, somewhere, right? Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. In the meantime, you check the newspaper records."

Dean would much rather pull Bobby's job, but with his face on the Most Wanted posters he couldn't take the risk. He wasn't going to fail this time at all. Getting tossed in jail would kill any chance he had of getting Sam back. It would be a stupid mistake. Besides, Dean Winchester had no intention of dying in prison.

"Okay, Bobby. Good luck."

"You, too."

The car door slammed shut with a loud creak, and she was left alone. Dean sat for a second, breathing. He tried to concentrate on the feeling of _Sam_ that he definitely had. If there'd been any doubt Sam was in Detroit, it had vanished when they hit city limits. Wherever Sam was, he was still alive. That wasn't as comforting as it would have been under other circumstances. Dean took one last deep breath and headed for the expansive library.

It took him a while to get where he needed, too struck by how much Sam would love the place to do much but gawp for a minute. Once he shook himself out of his strange melancholy, it didn't take him long to get buried in newspaper records, hard copy and online. Words blurred into smudges of black and gray, useless, meaningless and unhelpful. Right now, Sam was somewhere fighting for his life, or his soul. Dean knew it. And he sat in a library, doing nothing.

"Find anything?"

He hadn't heard Bobby's approach. Dean looked up wearily, eyes hot and dry from staring too long without blinking. He shook his head once. There was nothing that stood out to him, no repetitive patterns of crime made the news. If there were, he was too exhausted to spot them. He was almost back to square one, thousands of miles away from finding his brother, only the guy was actually in the same damned city. It felt like maybe the haystack was actually a huge salt lake and Sam was a grain of that salt. Dean was drowning in the lake. He could find neither the shore nor his brother.

"You?"

"Nothing definite," Bobby said. "Only…."

"What?" Dean straightened, edging toward the surface of the lake again. "What is it?"

"When I was at the station, a homeless woman came in. She was hysterical, certain a friend of hers had disappeared." Bobby pulled out a chair and sat down with a soft grunt. "The cops pretty much brushed her off."

"Who cares about the homeless, right?"

"Apparently not the cops. Idiots."

Dean knew one thing about the skills people like Sam possessed – those who were better at controlling them had practice. He couldn't think of a more invisible class of people to practice on than the homeless. Even if someone realized street people were going missing, there were too many possible reasons to be alarmed. Transients were … transient. He doubted much effort would be put into finding someone whose home was the street. That had been proven true right in front of Bobby not more than an hour ago.

"You talked to her," Dean said. "Tell me what she said."

"In the past six months or so, she's lost five friends and a handful of acquaintances. People she'd known for years just up and disappeared. She saw it happen once, maybe twice."

"And the cops did nothing in all that time? Nice."

"Well, she didn't exactly tell believable stories," Bobby said wryly. "For example she said one minute her friend Bernadette was there, and the next she was gone. Poof. No cop's going to believe a person can actually vanish without a trace."

Dean believed it because he'd seen it happen. This was the kids' handiwork, no doubt about it. Unfortunately, it might not mean that much. He and Bobby could probably pinpoint the area where the abductions, most likely murders, had occurred, but that was no guarantee the kids would be there. It would be smarter for them to set up operations somewhere else, but then again it would be easier to hide in areas regular people didn't like to think about.

"But we know better." Dean rubbed his neck and shoved the image of an isolated diner, almost submerged by heavy rain, out of his mind. Sam had been there one second and gone the next. "I wonder what the chances are they'll strike again soon. We could follow them, get a line on them that way."

"Maybe, unless they really did find out the girl and Sam made contact with me," Bobby said. Dean didn't want to hear what Bobby was about to suggest. "We have to accept the possibility they've already moved to a new location."

"They haven't," Dean said.

"You don't know that."

"I know Sam's here, Bobby. I can feel him."

"Dean…." Bobby looked at him with a sad, pity-filled expression. "You telling me you've got some psychic vibe now?"

"No." Dean pretended the look on Bobby's face didn't bother him. He swallowed, shaking his head. He looked his friend in the eye. "I can't explain it. I just know he's here. He has to be, Bobby."

For a second Bobby looked as though he was revisiting his breakfast, not in a good way, and broke eye contact. The mannerism was familiar to Dean. It occurred to him that he might not be the only one reliving past unhappy experiences.

"Okay. Pull up a map of the city," Bobby said after a minute. "I had the old gal write down where her friends disappeared. It'll give us parameters to work with."

It did. It took them all of five minutes to find a pattern. The homeless woman only saw two of the events, but the last known sleeping grounds the others used was enough to put the pieces together. It had all happened within a six-mile radius, still a lot of territory to cover but much more manageable. Dean hoped they'd get lucky. He had an itchy feeling at the base of his skull, like his old enemy Time was closing in on him again.

"Supposin' we do find these kids. Do you think we can get Sam out of there, facing, what, sixteen of them?" Bobby said as they exited the library. "You said they've got a lot of tricks up their sleeves."

"We'll have to."

"It's just that, well, maybe that's why the little girl said to send demons. Because she, or maybe Sam, knew I wouldn't be able to handle it no matter how many other hunters I pulled into this."

"We are not siccing demons on Sam, Bobby." Dean clenched his jaw so hard he thought he'd broken a tooth. He couldn't believe Bobby would even consider it. "That cannot happen. They'll kill him."

"Well, we need _some_ kind of plan. Sixteen is a big number, and I got nothing that'll work to stop them, short of killing them all."

Bobby was right. Dean knew if they ran into the kids while they were in action, they'd have to take them out the old fashioned way. They were evil, there was no doubt about it, but he wasn't totally sure he could look a child in the face and kill him or her. Except that wasn't really true. If it was to save Sam, he could.

"Let's just find them first. It'll help a hell of a lot if we can take stock of where they're holed up, what we're dealing with as well as the who."

Dean drove this time, nerves jangled enough that bone weariness was once again at bay. Just the thought of demons getting word that Sam was in Detroit, and in a vulnerable place, had adrenaline pumping through his veins. He pushed aside the pervasive thought Sam might already be lost to him. No, Sam was fine. They'd have to find a way to get Sam out of there first, then every demon in North America could surge down onto the kids for all Dean cared.

They divided the six or so mile area in half. Dean figured if one old homeless woman had seen something, others might have as well. He gave Bobby a nervous pat on the shoulder, and a quick glance to his surroundings. The neighborhood was rough. He felt a brief twinge of unease for his car's safety, but that was quickly overcome by his need to find Sam. Bobby looked at him miserably. Dean figured he still had major misgivings. Dean wasn't in the clear about that himself, but the itchy feeling at the base of his skull had changed to a dull ache. He knew there wasn't time for those misgivings.

"Meet you back here in a couple of hours."

"Boy, you call me if you run into anything."

Their words were nearly simultaneous. Bobby grinned sheepishly, and Dean tried to do the same. They were armed and they knew what they were doing. Dean gave one last look around before setting out. He tried to look approachable. That was always more Sam's thing.

He was about half an hour into canvassing when he saw her in his peripheral vision. She was a miniature Sam look-alike, all right. It wasn't his brother, but the floppy hair and the holey jeans made his blood pump fast enough it made his head hurt worse. He reached for the phone, and started to call Bobby. Then the girl turned and looked right at him. He was in the air until he wasn't anymore, smacked up against a brick wall, and sliding to the ground in a heap. His vision blurred and everything went gray and fuzzy. He fumbled for his blade.

"Well, fancy meeting you here, Dean," a voice said cheerfully. Anthony. The kid got in Dean's face, tugging the knife away easily. "You weren't going to use that on me, were you? Tsk."

"You little bastard."

"That's really hurtful, Dean." Anthony beckoned to someone Dean couldn't see. "We were looking for someone for Sam to practice on, but I guess now we've got you, the problem's solved."

"Shut up. Sam's not … he wouldn't."

Anthony just laughed.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Final chapter! Many, many thanks to the faithful few who read and reviewed throughout - your support really buoyed me in my moments of kvetchiness_. _I'm kind of embarrassed to admit that, but it's true. I hope there are others of you out there who've read and enjoyed. I try not to toot my own horn, but I was really proud of how this one turned out._

_**Last time:**_

_"Well, fancy meeting you here, Dean," a voice said cheerfully. Anthony. The kid got in Dean's face, tugging the knife away easily. "You weren't going to use that on me, were you? Tsk."_

_"You little bastard."_

_"That's really hurtful, Dean." Anthony beckoned to someone Dean couldn't see. "We were looking for someone for Sam to practice on, but I guess now we've got you, the problem's solved."_

_"Shut up. Sam's not … he wouldn't."_

_Anthony just laughed. _

**All the Little Children  
Chapter Seven**

Dean really should have thought of this. He was helpless, already trapped by the kids' powers after only a few moments. He didn't have control of his arms and legs, but they moved anyway. Déjà vu. He didn't like it any more now than he had before. Dean didn't think all the kids could be there, but it didn't matter since he was being moved and guided along without visible effort on their part. This wasn't turning out to be much of a rescue, but he couldn't be unhappy they'd take him right to Sam. Once they were together, he and Sam could handle a bunch of kids.

As they walked, Dean's head cleared more. He tried to see if anyone on the street noticed him being guided by a bunch of wrong-looking kids. There were only three of them. They probably didn't look unusual, if anyone could see them at all.

He was right about their base of operations not being in the same vicinity where they picked up their victims. Anthony led them to Andy's van and drove away quickly, with the little girl in the passenger seat. Another boy, one Dean didn't remember from Lawrence, was apparently the puppet master. Every time the kid twitched a finger, Dean's body betrayed him. The kid smiled at him the whole trip, a barely there, infernal little smirk.

"You think this is funny?" Dean said, as the kid made him slap himself across the face.

"Yeah, it's pretty funny," the kid said, laughing outright.

"Knock it off, Patrick," Anthony said from the front of the van.

Immediately the kid, Patrick, stopped and looked cowed. That wasn't a surprise. Even in Lawrence, Dean had pegged Anthony as the one in charge. The boy seemed comfortable with the role, which made Dean wonder how much he really wanted Sam to take over running things.

"Oh, I don't care about that. It's true that I've got a pretty sweet thing going. I think Sam sees how good I've done." Shit. He hadn't spoken out loud. Anthony laughed and sing-songed, "I know what you're thinking."

_Yeah, well, fuck you very much_, Dean thought.

"Ouch," Anthony said with mock hurt in his tone. "Watch the language, Dean. I'm just a little kid."

Dean tried to keep his mind as blank as possible from that point on. He doubted he did that great of a job, because Anthony kept sniggering in an emotionless way that grated on Dean's nerves. Fortunately, the ride wasn't a long one. Soon Patrick made him get out of the van. The kid gave Dean back motor control just as he was stepping down so that he lost his balance and fell flat on his face. His chin scraped against the sidewalk.

"That's going to leave a mark," Patrick said, and then continued his puppeteer act.

The house was one of those every neighborhood seemed to have. Where the rest of the block was white picket fences and fresh siding, this place was run down, with an overgrown lawn and chipped paint. Dean would find it hard to believe no one noticed a bunch of kids showing up one day, going in and out, except he knew one of them was able to manipulate what people saw. Everyone in the neighborhood was probably under the whammy. Still, he desperately looked up and down the block until he was walked through the front door.

"Take him downstairs," Anthony said.

"I can walk myself," Dean said. "It's not like I can go anywhere anyway."

"All right. Patrick, ease up."

Dean stumbled a little, but quickly regained his footing. He resisted the urge to kick Patrick in the family jewels, the punk. Anthony smirked at him and pointed to a door, which he assumed led to the basement. He looked around the house. All the faces looked back at him with disdain. None of them were Sam. He had a fair idea that Sam was in the basement, where he was about to go. His stomach started to hurt right along with his head. Dean opened the door and went down the stairs as quickly as his shaking legs would allow. He was right. Sam was there.

"Jesus. Sammy," Dean whispered.

If his brother heard him, he didn't show it. Dean found his legs again, and rushed forward. Before he reached Sam's slumped figure, he flew through the air landing on a stained Barkalounger opposite the identical chair his brother occupied. Dean hit the seat with a groaned exhalation; the chair tipped back so far his head connected with the wall. _Sam hadn't turned_ was all he could think for a second. His brother wouldn't be like _that_ if he had gone darkside. Then worry took over, because Sam still hadn't registered that anything was going on around him. That wasn't really any better than turning into a megalomaniac. Dean tried to move, and found he was pinned to the chair. Déjà vu all over again.

"Sam? Sammy?" he said again. Sam didn't even twitch. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing," Anthony said.

The five kids that had followed them down echoed the sentiment. An uncomfortable shiver ran down Dean's spine.

"I think he's faking it. We haven't laid a finger on him."

Like that meant anything. No one had touched _him_, and yet his ears rang and his head hurt. Come to think of it, his stab wound from their earlier visit had also started to throb again.

Anthony nodded his head.

The tiny little girl that had tossed him around like he was a Nerf ball moved silently until she stood in front of him. The blade that had been taken from him darted at his arm, slicing through his shirt and bandages. It stabbed deeply into his stitched wound. He tried not to let it, but a muffled exclamation of pain escaped from his lips. The blade extricated itself and hovered in front of him. The blood was hot and cold at the same time as it flowed down his arm. He looked at the reopened wound and cursed under his breath. No matter how many times it happened, it really sucked getting cut by his own weapon.

"That tickles," he said to the little girl.

She shrugged and walked away, though he suspected she could do far more damage than she'd done. Anthony came over to him and made a pretense of examining the injury. Dean clenched his jaw when the kid spent more time actually watching Sam with a keen eye, apparently seeking a reaction. He wouldn't mind a reaction from his brother either, but he got a very bad feeling that worse would be done to him before that would happen. Sam still hadn't moved. Dean's imagination went wild with various unsavory thoughts about what might have made his brother like that. At the edges of his mind, there were cold strands like antennae, and it made him feel like he was about to have a nosebleed. He thought about lopping off those invisible tendrils, getting them out of his brain.

"You think you're tough," Anthony said, sneering and leaning close.

"You know that isn't what I was thinking, big man." Dean clenched his jaw once. "I can feel you in my head."

"Sam shouldn't have sent for you."

Dean thought about Playboy centerfolds and bad porn on pay per view available in most of the motel rooms he and Sam stayed at. Anthony blushed, adolescent hormones and anger combined. Dean smiled. He could think about porn all damn day if he had to. Then the cold strands were replaced with hot fingers, digging ruthlessly into his brain. _Porn, porn, porn_ he tried to think but everything was a burst of orange and bright blue and agony like nothing he'd felt before except he had _when was it god make it stop_.

Someone somewhere said his name, familiar and real but not really there either. His head rolled to the side and he swore his brain sloshed around within his skull, at least partially liquefied. The immediate pain stopped, but echoes of it lingered. He heard a hollow cry of torment he subconsciously realized was his own. His breathing was rapid and shallow and wrong but he couldn't keep from trying to gain oxygen. Something wet trickled into his mouth, hot and salt and copper. Tears. Blood.

"You like that? That was Mason. Let's see, who should we let at you next? Johanna?"

Anthony was walking back and forth in front of his chair, Dean realized as he started functioning again. Disorientation made the pain seem more distant, but it was still there.

"No, because I think you already know how this will end. You don't need to see it first."

Dean's head fell down, chin practically on his chest. He was so screwed. Bobby didn't know where he was, the plan Sam had wasn't put into play and Sam himself was scarily vacant over there. It had only been minutes, Dean thought, though he couldn't say for sure. Time was relative, after all, and his archenemy.

"It's tough, because some of us don't have active powers. I can't hurt you, you know," Anthony continued to prattle. He picked up the knife, which had fallen to the floor. The kid jammed it unceremoniously into Dean's uninjured shoulder.

Dean heard himself scream, as if he were in the room but not in his body.

"Well, except for that."

"You're sick," Dean said when he finally had enough breath and reason back.

In response, Anthony yanked the knife out of his shoulder and plunged it into his right side with medical precision.

Dean wasn't an expert on anatomy, but he knew the blade hadn't hit anything vital. It still hurt like a bitch. He clenched his teeth this time, making the scream more sibilant. He couldn't help it, he looked down at his side. There was blood everywhere. When he looked back up, he saw Sam staring at him with haunted eyes. Dean gasped in surprise.

"Dean." Sam shook his head, blinking his eyes a couple of times. He looked confused for a moment, then his expression was overcome with horror. "No. Nononono. Dean!"

"Good to see you again, little brother," Dean said in between heaving for air.

"You're bleeding. Why are you here? You shouldn't be here," Sam said, now sounding slightly panicked. He breathed sharply for a second, then swallowed audibly and glared at Anthony. When he spoke again, his voice was deep, angry. "Let him go, Anthony."

"He came here all on his own, Sam. And I have to admit I was thinking we gave up our bargaining chip way too soon before," Anthony said. The kid was relaxed, as if he didn't know he was prodding Sam on. "I think we should let Wilson at him now." Anthony looked at Dean with a sly grin. "Wilson's one of Sam's favorites."

"No!" Sam shouted. "NO!"

And that was when Dean's world shattered into a million pieces. Every fiber of his being literally felt as though it was being splintered apart, and he saw nothing, heard nothing. Felt everything. It lasted forever. It lasted a second. He shook all over, couldn't stop. There was screaming now, and smoke and coldness and … firecrackers? He blinked but there was still smoke and screams. He wanted to lie there and not move ever again. He didn't know how he got on the floor. He sat up.

Chaos surrounded him. Children screamed. There was a fire somewhere, Dean heard it crackling now as he choked on the smoke. Things flew about the room. Chairs and lamps and _oh shit_ body parts. In the middle of it all, Sam stood terrible and tall and covered in blood. One look and Dean knew his brother was not his brother. Jesusgoddamn. This could not happen. Sam. Sammy.

Dean got up on his hands and knees, muscles threatening to give out on him. He couldn't take the time for himself. His side pulled, his arms were leaden and he wasn't sure his insides were where they were supposed to be. He ignored all of it. His pain didn't matter at the moment. He shuffled toward Sam, past the screaming kids and lumps he knew were legs and arms. He had to stop this. He reached out a hand, grabbing at Sam's forearm. He didn't know what was happening, not really, only that Sam wasn't Sam and Dean was terrified out of his mind.

"Sam," he said.

Sam didn't hear him, his attention solely on something else. Dean wavered slightly, shifting his gaze to where Sam was looking. Anthony, beaten and bloody and … laughing. The chair Dean had sat in landed on top of the kid, and then raised up again. Anthony just kept laughing, growing weaker, with a splatter of red on his chin, trailing out of his mouth. Jesus. Sam?

_Please stop please be my brother not this_.

"Sam, stop, you have to stop."

He got a good grip on Sam's arm at last. Sam was hot, not from the fire in the room, but from something else. Hellfire. Demonblood. His notbrother turned and looked at him. For a moment, Dean swore he saw black eyes instead of hazel. He sailed through the air toward the nearest wall, projected there by Sam. Dean knew it was going to hurt. Nothing could hurt more than knowing _Sam_ was this thing before him. He closed his eyes and braced his weary body the best he could, for impact. For defeat. Neither came. He opened his eyes. He was floating above the floor, about six inches from the wall. He was eased down then, muscles too sore to be of much good.

"Sam?" he said, but couldn't even hear himself.

"Oh, God." He heard Sam, though, husked out and scared. "Dean?"

Sam was at his side then, the real Sam, pulling him up and they moved together. Dean couldn't tell if he was still shaking like a newborn lamb or if it was Sam. It was probably both of them. They coughed against the smoke and destruction, picked their way to the stairwell and went up, out of the burning house. Dean saw the sky and he saw the grass, individual blades of it. He let everything go and saw nothing.

*

They'd killed Veda, ripped her apart like she was a rag doll and laughed when she wasn't stuffed with cotton but with organs, bones and veins. Blood and screams and all his fault. Sam didn't remember much about what happened between Veda's brutal death and when he finally realized Dean was there, or so he told himself. The memories were there, of course, unnamable and unmentionable. He didn't have to share them with his brother for Dean to know about them; he'd been there. Then again, maybe Sam just couldn't bring himself to put the horror into words. He honestly didn't remember how they'd come to be at Bobby's, though, or the first few days they'd spent there.

"Thanks, Ellen," Bobby said into the phone and hung up. Dean gave the older hunter a questioning look. "We think all the kids died in the fire."

Bobby said it like it was capitalized. The Fire. Sam knew he had created The Fire. It was one more thing he didn't know how to talk about. None of them had mentioned any of it, really, choosing incredibly awkward silences and inane discussions instead. He didn't quite know how to bring up in casual conversation how his whole being had become malevolence incarnate.

"What do you mean, think?" Dean said, still sounding unwell but so much better than he had a week ago, when he was limp, bloody and motionless on the charring grass.

"Ellen's source said the Detroit Fire Department identified the remains of twenty separate victims so far. From teeth, and, uh, bone fragments."

Both Bobby and Dean were looking at him with matched expressions on their faces. Sam could tell it even though his eyes were pinned to the floor. He felt sick to his stomach all the time now, and there was always something else – the cold knowledge he could do that again someday. He wasn't fit to live in this world, something he'd known before this had happened but hadn't fully understood. Now he did.

"There were at least ten bodies in the freezer," Sam said, not sounding like himself.

Something rustled, papers falling. Sam realized it was the first thing he'd said in hours, and had probably startled someone. A hush fell on the room, the kind of quiet that comes when someone's said the wrong thing. He felt even queasier, and he concentrated on keeping his breathing quiet, and the contents of his stomach where they should be.

"No one could have survived that fire," Bobby said uncomfortably.

Sam looked up at last, and found he'd been wrong. Bobby and Dean were looking at the floor the same way he had been, not at him. They couldn't look at him, and he couldn't blame them for that, or for anything. He stood slowly. Those things he chose not to remember out loud had left a lasting impact on him bodily, too, but his injuries were nothing compared to what Dean had suffered because of him. He looked at his brother, who was still too pale and favored his right side noticeably. Sam went into the kitchen, pouring himself his third cup of coffee of the day. It didn't really help prevent him from sleeping. Nothing did, but his rest was so fraught with nightmares he ironically didn't rest much anyway. After about a minute, Bobby joined him.

"You okay, Sam?"

It was an honest question Sam didn't have an honest answer for, mostly because he was never going to be certain if that inquiry was meant to convey plain concern or was code for _are you really you?_ And because he didn't think he knew what the word okay meant anymore.

"I'm not sure, Bobby," he found himself saying. "Yes, but no. I can't … I can't…."

Bobby didn't say anything. Sam floundered, as if the room had suddenly filled with water and there was no way out. He leaned on the table, weakened again by his thoughts as well as his injuries. Bobby was at his side in a second, showing rare worry through physical contact, a hand on Sam's back, rubbing. It felt like the absolution that he didn't deserve but needed so badly. He appreciated it but it wasn't Bobby he needed it from. It wasn't Dean either.

"I think I need some air. I'm going to go for a walk."

"Don't get too far, okay?" Bobby said. "Your brother will worry something fierce."

Sam nodded, fleeing the kitchen and the house. He kept running, away from his brother's concerned call. He just needed to get his head clear once and for all, learn to filter through all the shit jumbling through his brain all the time. Hate and death and _monster, monster, monstermonster._

There was an ash tree on the far side of Bobby's property he and Dean used to climb around in like monkeys when they were kids. Sam found himself standing below it. He clambered to the lowest branch that would bear his weight. Leaning against the rough bark, he closed his eyes. Like always, terrible things played out on the inside of his eyelids, his very own horror movie. In them, nothing was good and everything was bad, except one thing. Dean. Dean was the one true thing in his life, and Dean was going away. The mere thought almost paralyzed him with anxiety. He thumped his head softly against the tree trunk in a soothing rhythm.

"You used to do that when you were little, sometimes. Dad always worried you were going to hurt yourself," Dean said.

Sam sat up, startled. His foot fell off the branch, setting all him off kilter. He scrabbled a bit, regaining his balance. He held himself stiffly, unable to relax.

"It seemed to make you feel better, though, when nothing else would work. I would try everything, man, but what does a six-year-old really know about making the bad things all better for his little brother?"

Dean stood at the base of the tree. The sun was already setting. Sam didn't know how time had sped up the way it obviously had. The sky blazed orange, embossing his brother with the glow. Dean looked like he should be in a movie or something make-believe. Sam had to look away. All of it hurt too much to see, the bruises on Dean's face, the way he held himself stiffly from injury, and just _Dean_ down there, not knowing how to make things all better for his little brother. Sam heard scuffling sounds below. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Dean was circling the tree, slowly, pacing and leaning now and again to rest.

"Are you going to come down, or are you going to make me climb up there?"

Sam's stomach flipped a little. For as much as Dean had always centered him, now there was this element of distraction when he was around his brother. Tense fear, uncertainty that his brother could no longer love him because of what he'd done, what he was. He wanted to run. And he wanted to stay. He heard Dean sigh and start climbing, making noises that made it clear it wasn't easy. Wracked with this new guilt, Sam jumped down, landed gracelessly and stumbled back against the tree, legs tangled slightly. Sam slumped and rearranged himself until he sat, shoulders stiff against the trunk.

Dean stood next to him for a moment, then slid slowly down the tree until they sat shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the dying sun. Sam studied his hands, which were discolored by the sun's rays so that they looked red. He wondered how the same sun could cast such different light on him than it did on Dean.

"Bobby thinks we should talk about what happened," Dean said.

_Darkness inside him, slick, cold and merciless. _

"I don't know if I can," Sam whispered.

"I don't know if I can, either."

The sun was almost gone now, and chill was in the air. Sam shivered, drew his legs up and tucked his arms into the space between them and his torso. The bark was rough against his back, through his sweatshirt. Sam smelled dirt in the air, dusty and dry and nomadic, as it mixed with the dampness of the encroaching night. Everything was somehow filled with life and death at the same time. Shadows were all around them. Dean didn't push him, and he didn't push back.

"She was right," Sam said suddenly, too loud somehow now that daylight was gone, and unexpected even to him.

"Who?"

"There was…." Sam stopped. He couldn't, he had to. "There was this girl, she was the one who tried to help me. Her name was Veda. She told me she thought I could stop them all, but I wanted someone else to do it. I saw the answer in a vision."

"Demons, I know," Dean said, heaving a soft breath. It wasn't a sob but it wasn't a laugh either, something in between. "You know they would have killed you too."

"Yeah." Sam did laugh, but without humor. "But I remember thinking, _maybe it'll be better this way, maybe it's okay if demons wipe them out and me along with them_."

He stopped talking. Dean was rigid next to him. Sam dug his hands into his armpits, hugging tightly to feel the warmth he was afraid he'd never have again.

"That'll never be okay." Dean sounded shaky.

"I could feel it, Dean, something awful deep inside. I still can," Sam said. "I still can. Veda was right about me all along. She died for nothing, for me."

"Hey," Dean said and pressed his shoulder into Sam's, bolstering him without even thinking about it. He didn't know how Dean could always do that for him, but god, he took and took. "Sam, no. I refuse to believe that was you, the _real_ you, back there, and you're sure as hell not nothing. Not to me."

Dean didn't really believe that it hadn't been Sam who had killed and raged. He could see it but Sam also saw something else in Dean's expression. Desperation, unwavering support, and the love he had feared lost forever. Warmth seeped into him, from where their shoulders touched. Just like that, most of the uncertainty was gone and it was just _Dean_, like it had been just _Dean_ who'd drawn him back to himself in Detroit, and so many times before. Sam felt the tears come and fought them. He looked at his brother, vision wet and blurred, but he saw Dean staring back at him with wide eyes, silent.

"Yes. It was me, Dean." Dean closed his eyes tightly then, shook his head, like that would stop what Sam said from being true. "When I saw you, finally saw that it was you and not some hallucination, and that there was all that blood and you were screaming … it came out of me. I couldn't keep it from happening. To tell you the truth, I didn't want to. I wasn't going to stop. It was you. _You_ stopped it."

His brother opened his eyes again. Sam could see, even through his own tears, the helplessness, the regret, the fear Dean radiated. And the ever-present love, mixed in with everything else, somehow stronger than it all. Sam didn't think he deserved it any more than he deserved absolution, but, oh, he needed it.

"You think it'll all be okay after you die. You think I'll live on without you, fighting the good fight, or, god, I don't know, raising the perfect family. How could I do either of those things? You act like you're the only one who loves someone so damned much you'd do anything to keep them alive. I won't live when you're gone, Dean," Sam said. The lump in his throat made it painful to speak. He swallowed, wincing before he continued. "You have to know that."

"Sammy…."

"No. I wouldn't have lived before all this happened, and now it's more than that." Sam spoke quickly. He couldn't let Dean interrupt. "You've _always_ been the onlyone keeping me from becoming that thing, that monster I wasback there. You've seen it with your own eyes. The things I'll do for you scare the shit out of me sometimes, the things I'll do _without_ you are too awful to think about. Do you understand why I can't let you die for me?"

He knew Dean did. It was in his brother's eyes and in the way his lips trembled with emotion. Dean's gaze slid away from him, toward the horizon. Sam leaned forward until his head was on his knees. They sat together under the tree without speaking, Dean staring where the sun used to be and Sam huddled in darkness of his own making.


End file.
